


Almost Like Being in Love

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Jazz Music, M/M, Mycroft knows what he wants, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Very mild hints of D/S if you squint, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-03-09 09:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: This was what Greg loved about jazz - the way you couldn’t always predict how it was going to go. It was unpredictable, but swept you away all the same. Greg remembered what a friend had said to him once - that the best way to enjoy jazz was like taking the passive role in a dance - just let the music take the lead, and it would never let you down.





	1. When Can I See You?

**Author's Note:**

> No writer is an island. I owe innumerable thanks to the following people for their enthusiasm and support during the writing of this story. Bookjunkiecat, janto321, Bluebuell33, HastaLux, hoomhum, NDKiwi, the Mystrade Panic Room Family, and all of my Twitter friends who were so ridiculously enthusiastic when I mentioned a jazz!mystrade prompt. Your encouragement and love mean the world to me. Without you, this never would have come to pass.
> 
> This story is nearly finished, but I will be posting in installments as I complete the last couple of chapters. 
> 
> I just couldn't wait to share this with all of you, and I hope very much that you love it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Greg put down his case notes and massaged his eyeballs. Slow strains of light piano played from his laptop speakers. He’d hoped some Nancy Wilson would be soothing as he worked, but nothing quite eased the experience of memorizing all the intimate details of violence. All cases were awful, but this one ate at his heart. A young girl, Sophie Clarke, had been killed - washed up on the shore - and no sign of Ms. Clarke's boyfriend who had spent the night when Sophie went missing. It was like he’d disappeared off the planet. He must be somewhere, but all the leads had come up empty. 

They’d been working on it for days with barely anything to show for it. Ms. Clarke kept calling, and having no answers to give her drove him to work later and later, looking over the same evidence again and again. The answers were there, but he just wasn’t looking hard enough.

Soft tapping on the door frame caught his attention. He paused the music and looked up to see Sally with her coat on. A glance out the window showed the world had gone dark around him. He could see the signs of strain on her face - hair slightly mussed on one side and a smudge of makeup at the corner of her eye where she’d been rubbing her face.

“Look, boss.” Sally walked in a step and leaned in the doorway.  “I know this case is eating at all of us, but you've got to sleep sometime. You’re scaring the rookies.”

“They’re seeing a vision of their future,” Greg replied, running his hands over his face and through his hair. “It’s best if they set their expectations early. In ten years they’ll be old, worn out, and grey just like me.”

Sally snorted. “Speak for yourself, Gandalf. Listen, you know you can’t do any more good here until the rest of the reports come back from the labs. We’ve exhausted everything else, including our brains. Everyone else has gone home, _I’m_ going home now, and _you’re_ leaving too.”

“Are you kicking me out of my own office?” Greg accused with a laugh.

“Consider this your eviction notice.” Sally jangled her keys at him with a smile. “I'm not saying you've got to go home, but you can't stay here. You need some fresh air and a break. Come back on Monday with a fresh perspective.” She smiled, cheekily. “Normally, _you’d_ be saying this to _me_ , you know. I’m just showing you what I’ve learned. Now it’s time to take your own advice.”

Greg conceded ruefully and gathered up the paperwork and crime scene photos from his desk and then slid them back into their folder before setting the whole thing into a side drawer for later.

“Alright, let me just…” He trailed off as he pushed back his desk chair and stood. The heel of his hand pressed into his lower back for a moment, easing the ache before patting his pockets for his keys. He put on his coat and scarf from the hook on the back of the door and followed Sally down the stairs and out of the building.

The wind pushed a brisk breeze down his neck as they walk outside. Greg shivered a little and wrapped the end of his scarf around his neck one more time, covering the gap between the layers.

“Want to share a ride?” Sally asked, stepping up to the curb to wave down a taxi. She wasn’t about to do any more walking today - her feet already hurt. Greg might have sat at a desk all day, but someone still had to do all the legwork, and she’d been pushing hard all week.

“Nah, thanks, though. I think I’ll walk for a bit - if I go home now, I’ll do nothing but chew on the case all night. You’re right, I need to clear my head a bit…maybe pop into a pub first.”

“Can you repeat that part? The one about me being right? I want to take a video for later.” Sally held up her phone at him, priming the camera with a tired wink.

“Oh go on, get out of here.” Greg flapped his hand at her. “I’ll go walk about for a while. See what there is to see.” 

“Suit yourself,” Sally said as she stepped up to the approaching cab. “I don’t want to see you back until Monday. Take the weekend and enjoy yourself - we won’t have anything to work with until then, anyway.”

“You just don’t want me texting you with wild ideas all weekend, you mean,” he pitched with a toothy grin.

 She grinned, and didn’t argue. “See you Monday.”

Greg turned as the cab pulled away and he started walking. The stretch felt good in his legs after a day behind a desk, affirming his choice to pass up a ride. The air was crisp, and after a few minutes, the cobwebs in his brain began to clear away. Adrenaline kicked in and a restless energy took its place. There was something very awakening about joining the crowd of humanity late at night - a tingle that set into his feet and walked its way up his spine until he felt it in his scalp.

He definitely wasn’t ready to go home, but going to his local was equally unappealing.

In his younger days, he’d have been on the pull, feeling like this. But while becoming a Detective Inspector had its perks, the responsibility of the post had its drawbacks too. Being seen behind an alley with his hands in someone’s pants wasn’t respecting the dignity of the job, and inviting a stranger home was always a bit dodgy, especially when they found out he was a cop.

The bright lights of the storefronts caught his attention. Maybe it wasn’t too late to catch a show or find somewhere to dance. He glanced down at his button-down shirt and dress trousers. Not exactly clubbing attire, but surely there was a fresh venue nearby with a bit of thrill to offer. His head swept side to side as he walked, now seeking more than just aimless walking - a hunter’s mindset, although he wasn’t altogether sure what he was looking for.

Greg kept to the same general direction for a while, passing storefronts and theater crowds. He occasionally took a left or a right at a whim, people watching and moving with the crowds until a wave of music caught his ear. Someone cursed at him when he stopped in the middle of the pavement, and the foot traffic diverted around him. Was that...a saxophone?

The sound grew louder as Greg rounded the corner. Loud jazz music spilled out of a propped-open red-painted door, a little way down the street - Greg could hear the horns clearly even from outside. Red neon lights announced the name of the venue above a black awning and handwritten chalk sign on the pavement outside displayed a band name - no one he’d heard of. He pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet and handed them over to the bouncer. The doorman waved him through and passed him off to the hostess who led him to an underground level and tucked him into the last unreserved seat for the evening (a lucky last-minute cancellation, she tells him).

The venue was surprisingly upscale inside, for all that the view from the pavement was somewhat nondescript. If the sign hadn’t been lit up, he’d never have noticed it. Dark red walls were offset by bright brass fittings, lending a brooding, romantic atmosphere to the room. The jazz music was louder inside - the trumpet and the high hat bouncing in his ears. His senses were immediately overwhelmed by the volume.

The band on the stage had a variety of instruments set out - an upright bass to the side, a saxophonist and a trumpet player on the other. A drum set in the back. The singer was in the middle, standing in front of a baby grand piano. Unusual, he thought - bands these days usually just brought a set of keyboards. Greg could hear the music from the piano but all he could see of the pianist was the top of a swaying hat. The song was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on the artist. He closed his eyes to concentrate. Maybe it would come to him.

The cushy velvet seat created a dichotomy in his body. He was still energized - the back of his neck prickled - but tension loosed from his shoulders as he eased back into the comfortable chair. The red velvet felt decadent on his fingertips and he rubbed them back and forth, with and against the grain a few times.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Jeremy. May I get you a drink?”

Greg was snapped out of his spell. A server was standing next to him. He felt awkward - hadn’t even looked at their drink menu, but this was probably not the place to order his usual lager. All of him felt left-footed tonight.

“Er, hello,” he said, passing his hand over the back of his neck. “Could I get a Manhattan?” He quickly ordered the first posh thing he remembered he liked.

“Certainly, Sir. Will you be dining in this evening as well?”

“Er,” he stumbled again. “No, no thanks. Just the drink.” His nerves were still too keyed up - anything he ate right now would just sit in a lump in his stomach.

“Very good, sir.” The server smiled and left to put in his order. Greg exhaled a tense breath, feeling inexplicably as though he had just passed an exam. He petted the texture of the chair again, feeling the prickle on his fingers as the music settled over him. He swayed a little, eyes closing again. The name of the song lingered just out of his reach and he gave it up as a loss, simply relaxing into it and enjoying the play of the instruments as they responded to one another. The volume washed over him, settled into his skin.

This was what he loved about jazz - the way you couldn’t always predict how it was going to go. Complex melodies traded dominance back and forth between the instruments, the tempo keeping steady until a burst from the drummer set it all on a different track. It was unpredictable, but swept you away all the same. Greg remembered what a friend had said to him once - that the best way to enjoy jazz was like taking the passive role in a dance - just let the music take the lead, and it would never let you down.

When the server came back with his drink Greg ordered a second immediately. It sounded like the set was just starting, and the first sip went down smoothly enough. There’s no way he could go home until something took him out of his head. He had to let go. Just for a while. Greg knocked the first drink back, and sipped the second throughout the set, nodding along to the music. His fingers tapped the beat on the side of his glass as he melted into the rhythm, bobbing his head, neck going a little wobbly from the music and the whisky.

After a while, the band announced a small break, awakening Greg from his trance. The singer and the saxophone player exited and passed through a black curtain behind the stage Greg hadn’t noticed before now. The piano player stood up for an elegant stretch, and then tugged his burgundy brocade waistcoat back into place. He removed his hat and swept a hand underneath with a slight ruffle to his auburn hair.

Greg froze. Like a deer in danger, adrenaline spiked through his brain. The pianist was hidden behind the piano before, just a swaying fedora. Now Greg realized he looked familiar. Very familiar. Greg has seen that particular waistcoat before under a beautiful charcoal bespoke suit - settled over the trim figure of one Mycroft Holmes not two weeks before.

Now it was situated under a velvet black tuxedo jacket. But he knew that figure - he’d spied it lurking at the edges of countless crime scenes when Sherlock bit off more than he could chew. No one else was that effortlessly fancy - he could see the glint of the man’s watch chain from here.

Mycroft picked up a glass of water that was resting on the top of the piano and stepped off the stage into the band’s private area. Greg's mind buzzed. He picked up his phone and unlocked it. Almost texted John, then thought better of it. Almost texted Sherlock, then didn’t. He cradled the phone against his chest - unable to put it to use but unwilling to put it down. What would he even say to them? “Hey I saw your brother, and he’s a damn fine musician?” That’s hardly news, and not something Sherlock would be interested in. He wanted to tell _someone_ but there was no one to tell. No one else knew, or cared, who the man was. He was a shadow. It felt like a momentous occasion, but also a solitary one. A secret knowledge. He waved over the server to order another drink. Wait. He had an idea.

“Do you think  -” he paused, then started over. “Is it a “done” thing to buy a drink for a member of the band?”

Jeremy smiled, “Yes of course. Who would you like to send it to?”

Greg was not going to blush. He wasn’t.

“Send one to the pianist, please. Whatever he’s drinking tonight.”

“That would be Mick. Shall I add it to your tab?”

Greg nodded. He was second-guessing now, but it was too late - the server had already walked away. He just wanted to let Mr Holmes - Mycroft - know. To send a message that Mycroft wasn’t alone here. What would he think? What if he was upset? Clearly he wasn’t here in a business capacity - why did the server say Mycroft’s name was “Mick”? Was Greg intruding on something private? Should he go?

Greg chewed on his nail briefly before snatching it back out of his mouth. He wasn’t a child. He could handle this. It was just a friendly “hello”. Right? His toes began tapping a quick rhythm on the floor before he put a stop to that too.

The curtain behind the stage twitched aside and the band trickled back to the stage in ones and twos, taking their places. Greg was transfixed - eyes locked on Mycroft. His breath felt heavy in his chest as Jeremy walked up to the stage and set several bottles of water down near the band members. Greg’s drink was handed to Mycroft as he sat at the piano again. Jeremy bent down to speak a few words to him but his face was hidden behind the raised lid. Mycroft stood again, slowly, bending to ask the server a question. Jeremy nodded toward his table by the wall, Greg guessed he was too well-mannered to point. Mycroft swiveled his head and pinned Greg with his gaze.

His breath froze.

Their eyes locked for just a moment. Greg felt like someone had dropped a glass of ice water down his back. He shivered.

Mycroft turned back to the server with an unreadable expression and sent him off with a few more words before returning his eyes to Greg for a long moment. Then he sat back down, invisible behind the piano, except for his hat.

Greg sucked in air. His hands trembled, so he stuffed them under his thighs to still them. What had he done? He had made a huge mistake. What right did a scruffy man like him have to send a drink to a fancy gentleman like that, anyway? He might as well have been flirting with Prince William, only he dared to think Mycroft was classier. This was not going to go well. He didn’t look angry, he thought, but he hadn’t smiled at him either.

The drummer counted off the beats and a new song began the next set. The sounds of saxophone and upright bass and piano were dancing together. His toes started tapping again, this time to the rhythm instead of from nerves. The drums reverberated off the walls and settled into his bones - his tension eased again. His earlier calm began to settle on his shoulders, and he closed his eyes to ease the transition. Perhaps it would all be forgotten and he wouldn’t come out on the poor end of what was surely a social faux pas.

“Excuse me? Sir?”

Greg’s eyes popped open. Jeremy stood nearby holding a platter with a pen and paper.

“Mick says thank you for the drink, and that he hopes you will request a song in exchange. Is there a specific tune you’d like to hear? This group does all sorts of styles, but...I’ve never heard him take a request before. He must be in a good mood tonight.”

Greg took a breath before he said something stupid.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. If that’s what he wants.” The extra breath didn’t help.

“I’ve brought you something to write on.” The waiter lowered the tray so Greg could reach.

“Thanks.” Greg took the paper and thought for a moment. He had to curb the instinct to place the end of the ballpoint pen in his mouth - a smoker’s habit but one he shouldn’t indulge with someone else’s writing utensil. What if? He took a chance, his heart lurching like a hand drum as he scribbled a song on the pad, hoping it was one Mycroft knew.  

“Ask him if he’s familiar with this one,” Greg offered. “If not, then anything else he wants to play will be more than fine.”

The server glanced at the request and tucked a little smile up in the corner of his mouth. He tore the paper off the pad, folded it neatly, and slipped it in his chest pocket with a pat for safekeeping. “Of course, Sir. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Are you okay with your drink for now?”

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine,” Greg reassured him with a smile, returning the server’s pen, safely un-chewed.

He watched Jeremy walk to the side of the stage. He couldn’t watch. He couldn’t stop watching. What had he done? Stupid. Why _that_ song? What if... what if it was too much? He was sure Mycroft could handle the music if he knew it, but the underlying question that went with it - now he wasn’t so sure. He had to quit staring - what if Mycroft looked back? What if he looked back at Greg, and Greg _wasn’t_ looking. Then he’d miss his chance to see Mycroft’s face. What was he thinking? Might as well have put “do you like me, circle Yes or No,” like a note passed in class. _Juvenile_. Greg shook his head. Too late for it now.

Such a small question on a small piece of paper - why was it looming over his head like that? He needed to quit drinking now because his head was spinning. Or maybe it was the room. Or maybe it was because he was holding his breath. Christ, he wanted a cigarette.

The song ended, and the waiter jumped up on the stage, handing out more bottles of water to the musicians. He retrieved the note out of his pocket and handed it over to Mycroft with a quiet word. Mycroft scanned it quickly and then stood up to stare at Greg over the open piano top. Their eyes met, and Mycroft held his gaze as he deliberately re-folded the paper and slowly slid it down into his own breast pocket. An enigmatic smile curved his face as he leaned over to speak to the lead singer then sat back down, disappearing behind the piano cover again.

Greg blew out air in a whoosh. Was that good? Why did it feel like he’d been issued a dare?

“Alright,” the lead musician leaned into his mic. “We’re going to take a break from our own compositions for a bit, we’re going to play a song for a friend who’s come out to see us tonight. You might know it,” he said with a wide smile. “This is by the one, the _only,_ Herbie Hancock, called _When Can I See You?_ ”


	2. 'Round Midnight

The crowd clapped and whistled. Greg blushed, even though absolutely no one was looking at him. It felt like even the walls were watching this unfold. He nibbled the side of his thumb, then snatched his hand back out of his mouth again. The drums started off with a bounce and the jazzy piano danced into the intro of the song, joined by the bass and saxophone. As they played, Greg slowly realized it wasn’t the same arrangement of the song that he knew. He knew the song by heart - had the album for years and played it many times.

This group of musicians had a slightly different set of instruments, though, causing some adjustments to be made here and there. The song wove in an additional trumpet and the singer vocalized through some parts where the synth piano would have been. It was an innovative arrangement, and the improvisation was impressive considering they hadn’t had prior warning. Greg grinned, his stomach was wobbling inside and the tension in his chest grew. In a way, he felt proud - Proud that Mycroft had granted his request. Proud he hadn’t been rejected. Proud that they were putting such effort into the song. He rubbed his palm on his chest, trying to calm his heart.

When the song ended, Greg got to his feet with the rest of the crowd, popped two fingers in his mouth, and whistled his appreciation loud enough to be heard over the din. Mycroft and the group had gone above and beyond. What started out as a simple request had been filled with talent beyond his expectation. He sat back down, a little star-struck.

Mycroft must not have minded his clumsy flirting, he thought, if he not only played his song request but also played it like _that_. He should have known the elder Holmes would be a talented musician - although it seemed to Greg like Mycroft was the kind of man who would be good at anything he set his mind to. And he’d heard Sherlock play once or twice - not just the scratchy bits he squawked out when he was irritated, or the little Christmas songs he consented to playing during their last Christmas do, but the haunting, soaring melodies Greg heard out the window sometimes when he showed up unexpectedly. He’d read somewhere that musical talent often ran in families.

Mycroft stood up and spoke a quick word to the singer once again, and the band conferred for a moment. Then he turned to Greg again, winking and touching the tip of a finger to his hat in a nod before sitting down again behind the keys.

“Thank you very much,” the singer bowed to the crowd. “We’ve got one more special song we’d like to play for you tonight. This one’s called, “‘Round Midnight”. We hope you like this version we’re gonna play for you now.”

The crowd clapped again. His cheeks were flushed from Mycroft’s little playful nod. Greg’s palms met a total of twice before they stuttered in mid-air. He realized. Mycroft had _answered back_. The noise rushed in his ears as he absently clapped a few more times with the people around him, trickling off as the music began again, heavy on the saxophone, with a gentler, easier tone.

 _‘Round Midnight!_ Greg checked his watch. 11:30. Ok. Ok, he could do this - be patient and wait. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but. A man like Holmes could have anyone, Greg imagined. He was powerful, moneyed, classy, and easy on the eyes. Lord, those giraffe legs of his, and a neck that went for miles. But he said yes to Greg. Yes to a meeting. That was worth something. His arms pricked into gooseflesh. His toes tapped along with the high hat as he sipped the watery remains of his drink. The ice cubes were mostly melted but he crunched one in his teeth.The cold saturating his jaw helped to keep him grounded while his heart rabbited in his chest.

The slower pace of the song began to ease his nerves. He wasn’t as familiar with this tune, but the saxophone drifted easily into his bones and Greg settled himself in to wait. If he could sit in the rain waiting for a criminal to show his face for 16 hours, then waiting for Mycroft Holmes should be no problem. Patience was something he had in spades.

Being given a directive - even one so subtle as a song title soothed some of his unease. The song ended and the set flowed from one to the next, and Greg gentled himself into it. Let the music lead, he told himself. The minutes passed as he swayed into the slower pace of the second set. The waiter eased between tables now and again, refilling drinks, clearing glasses, and bringing snacks and checks.

“Thank you so much for coming out to see us this evening.” The vocalist bowed to the crowd and waved a little. Greg was startled as the music came to an end, and the musicians got up for a stretch. He checked his watch. 12:07. His head felt hazy.

He looked for Mycroft. The man caught his gaze and tipped his head toward the back of the venue with a slight smile. Greg wondered what it would take to put a real smile on his face.

“Excuse me, Sir?” The waiter was back. Probably wanted him to pay his bill.

“Oh, of course,” Greg patted his pocket absently, and then extracted his wallet.

“Your bill has been covered by the house, Sir,” Jeremy said, with an indulgent smile.

Greg stared at him. “But. Oh. Okay.” He pulled out a bill and eased his wallet back into his pocket. He held out his hand to the server and palmed him some cash.

“For the service,” he said. “I appreciate you helping me to...er...pass notes in class.”

Jeremy laughed. “My pleasure, Sir,” he said. “The door you’re looking for is down the hallway and to the right. Leads out to the musicians’ entrance.”

Greg fought down a blush and just nodded his head. He headed toward the back of the venue, but took a quick detour for a minute to take care of his alcohol and splash some water on his face. He took the chance to straighten his hair and his shirt. Following the hallway down and to the back, the short corridor was dark and cramped, but he found the exit easily. He pushed through the door and the night air ruffled through his hair, cooling the traces of water left on his temple.

He pulled a piece of gum from his pocket and unwrapped it. Mycroft wasn't in sight, but he figured that staying put was his best bet. The brick was cold and rough on his back, rucking up his shirt. He patted his shirt pocket a couple of times before he remembered he quit smoking again, then chewed on his gum slowly, the motion calming him.

Crunching gravel off to the side signaled Holmes’s approach. The flickering light over the doorway lit up his hat. His hat brim cast shadows over his face so Greg couldn’t see his expression - there was no way to tell what he was thinking, but surely Mycroft didn’t invite him back here to get rid of him. A small thought popped into his head that this would be an ideal place for a murder, before he firmly told his work brain to shut up. Greg would much rather focus on the fact that a very dapper, powerful, and talented man was walking his way after flirting gently for a few hours.

Greg’s brain fizzled and he fought hard to keep from chewing a nail in anticipation, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets. It had the added advantage of allowing him to hide the sudden tightness in his trousers. That waistcoat made him imagine all kinds of criminal things.

“Detective Inspector. I see you received my message.” His voice was smooth, as though inviting conquests to meet him in back alleys was something he did every day. Did nothing ruffle this man? Greg aimed to try.

“I did. Thank you - you’re a talented pianist.”

“A minor trifle. I found myself with a small conundrum at work, and sometimes it turns out that I think better when my body is otherwise occupied.”

“So.” Greg’s tone went sly. “Do they really call you “Mick?” His cheeky grin couldn’t be smothered.

Mycroft tweaked a smile in return. “Anthea made arrangements for me to fill in with this group today. She thinks she has a sense of humor.”

“So you don’t play with them regularly?” Greg’s eyebrows raised. “I never would have guessed. You all seemed as though you were familiar with one another.”

“Once one understands the basic principles of jazz composition, improvisation can be accomplished with ease.”

“Somehow, I’m thinking that your definition of ease is not the same as most.”

Mycroft tipped his hat gently in acknowledgement, but said nothing.

“Do you often play songs for patrons?”

“No.”

Greg’s brain stuttered. “ Oh.” He bit his lip, not knowing how to answer.

“As much as I’m enjoying the scenery,” Mycroft gently toed an empty can to the side with a highly polished oxford, “I had a much more comfortable venue in mind when I extended you my invitation.” He said. “Do you suppose I could tempt you back to my flat for a nightcap, as the saying goes?”

Greg could be tempted. So, so tempted. He pushed off from the wall, wrapped his gum in the wrapper and tossed it in the bin next to the door. He approached the other man with steady steps, doing his best to disguise suddenly wobbly knees. His breathing grew deeper in his chest. Definitely didn’t imagine Mycroft’s eyes quickly flickering over him with a glance, head to toe.

Mycroft stood his ground and Greg’s steps took him to stop just a hand’s width away from the other man’s chest. Greg kept his hands in his pockets, but allowed his eyes to roam over Mycroft’s face, asking permission. He tilted his head up, offering. He glanced briefly over Greg’s shoulder, then leaned in gently, his breath tickling Greg’s cheek before bussing a brief kiss across his jaw. Mycroft must have spotted something that made him hesitate.

“Shall we adjourn?” he murmured. “Unless a penchant for exhibition is something I did not deduce about you. I assure you that my home has... _everything_ we will need.”

Right - a venue like this had security cameras on the entrances. Greg must be out of his element not to have noticed them. He followed where the other man led him, down the alley and around the side of the building where a trademark sleek black car was waiting. A driver opened the door and Mycroft stood aside, waiting for Greg to enter first and slide across before sweeping off his hat and joining him on the seat. Presumably this Holmes did not scoot across back seats.

“Tell me, Detective. What exactly brings you out on the town this evening?” Mycroft’s driver closed the door quietly as the man settled next to Greg, their thighs touching.

“Can’t you tell? Like Sherlock does?”

“I could. But I think I’d rather enjoy hearing you say it.”

Greg paused. “Sally kicked me out of the office. Hard case. Got stuck. Didn’t want to go home, so I thought I’d walk for a while. I heard the music, and…” He struggled to explain. “Do you ever find yourself in a situation where you’ve got this aimless energy build up inside, and then suddenly, the solution just clicks?”

Mycroft’s hand landed gently on Greg’s knee, the warmth from his palm seeping through the fabric. If Greg wasn’t stiffening before, that would have hardened him in an instant. He fought the urge to fidget on the seat.

“Aimless feeling? No. Solutions, however, yes. And sometimes,” the palm slid slowly upward toward Greg’s crotch, “sometimes a better solution presents itself unexpectedly. And you, Detective Inspector, are _absolutely_ the cure for what ails me today.”

Greg gasped as the palm fitted solidly over the heavy bulge and rubbed firmly.

“Christ, do you think you could call me Greg now you’ve put your hand on my cock?” He tipped his head backward into the seat, exposing his neck as he arched into the pressure.

“And what if I simply take my hand off your cock…?” Mycroft arched his tone and made as if to remove his hand.

“Evil,” Greg groaned as he quickly covered Mycroft’s hand with his own and pinned his palm down. He tangled their fingers together for good measure and pressed up into it again, rubbing himself against it.

“I’ve been called worse. Now. Weren’t you about to tell me something important?” Mycroft was still cool and collected, though a sly smile had appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“I was?” Any higher thought Greg might have had was rapidly disappearing into his pants.

“Yes. You were about to explain to me, in great detail, exactly at what point this evening you first entertained the idea of getting on your knees for me.”

“Oh my God.” Somehow without any effort at all,  he had lost any illusion of control in this situation.

Mycroft’s hand groped him again, and Greg released his grip, placing his hand on Mycroft’s thigh instead. His finger stroked frantically over the fine weave of the man’s trousers, tightening as they wrapped over the inside of Mycroft’s thigh.

“I’m waiting…”

“Please. Don’t toy with me. You know what I want. You Holmeses always know”

“Very well.” Mycroft removed his hand, to Greg’s disappointment, and placed his arm around the seat back behind Greg’s head. His hand stroked the side of Greg’s neck, softly trailing fingers up and down, then he leaned in and nosed over his ear, warm breath wafting over his cheek.

“I can tell by the way you’re stroking your fingers across the grain of my trousers that you prefer a tactile approach. You like to feel everything around you, explore with your hands. No doubt you were a kinesthetic learner in school - good at art and sport.” He pecked a kiss on the shell of his ear - a tickle fizzled down Greg’s spine.

Greg paused his groping hand, paralyzed. His brain grappled with the paradox of being simultaneously embarrassed and aroused. He was pretty sure he liked it.

“The gum you were chewing when you came out, and the ragged thumbnail on your left hand are telltale signs of an ex-smoker. I have no doubt that all your ballpoints have been gnawed on.” He sucked the earlobe into his mouth, and released it with a scrape of his teeth. Greg spread his legs outward, begging Mycroft to put his hand back where he needed it most.

“Oh, god.” Greg’s grip tightened on Mycroft’s leg and his other grappled onto the edge of the leather seat.

“I saw you as you eased into the music, you know. You like surrendering yourself to experiences around you, like dancing or swimming. But the nature of your job often makes that impossible. Habitual hypervigilance, unless you feel safe,” Mycroft murmured. “But at heart, you’re a hedonist, aren’t you? I saw you close your eyes and lose track of time. You want someone to take you out of your head, don’t you? Is that what you need?”

“Mycroft,” Greg choked out.

“You will be safe with me,” he said softly, caressing Greg’s neck with his lips. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

“Yes,” Greg said, more breath than voice. His cock throbbed. He felt exposed. Seen. But. “What’s in it for you?”

“Surely you must know, Greg.” Mycroft bit gently at the tendon in his neck, before soothing with a small kiss. Greg was in agony. “All day long, I manipulate, arrange, force, and persuade people to do what I want. But sometimes I want someone to simply do as they’re asked. The first time. Without questioning. Simply because they want to please me. Because they trust me. And,” he paused, applying soft lips to his earlobe, “you want to please me, don’t you?” Greg trembled. “Do you trust me?”

Greg’s heart was never going to recover. He stuffed his knuckle in between his teeth and drew in a shaky breath around it.

“I…”

“Please say yes, Greg. Let me take care of you - put yourself in my care. If the answer is no, I’ll have my driver take you directly home, no questions asked. No repercussions. But I would quite like it if you allow me to ease your mind for the evening.” He placed another soft peck on his neck, just above the collar. Warm breath washed over his shoulder and Greg went weak. Greg wondered how often Mycroft said “please” to anyone. “I promise you will enjoy yourself.”

“Yes.” He felt like he’d been shoved off a cliff. Only. Only he’d jumped.

“I’m honored,” Mycroft said softly, pulling his arm from around Greg’s shoulder and smoothing his palm from knee to cock and back. His posture sharpened as he glanced out the window, putting some distance between them. “We’re here.”

The car pulled forward into a parking space in front of a row of flats, and parked. The driver left the vehicle running as he stepped out and circled around to open Mycroft’s door.

Greg’s face flamed - he had forgotten all about the driver and hoped desperately that the shield separating the driver’s section from the back was as soundproof as it looked. Mycroft’s employee barely glanced at him, keeping his eyes on Mycroft for instructions as his boss exited the vehicle. Greg shuffled out to stand behind him, wrapping the ends of his long coat strategically in front of his cock, although it was clear he was hiding absolutely nothing. If the state of his trousers hadn’t given him away, his flustered expression certainly would have.

“That will be all this evening, Tomas. The on-call driver will take over from here should I need any additional transportation this evening.”

“Very good, Sir,” Tomas nodded, and climbed back into the car, closing the door with a quiet, expensive _whuff_.

As the vehicle idled, Mycroft walked up a small set of steps to a front door, well-covered by a discreet security system. He entered the house code with a few beeps on the keypad and the door unlocked with a heavy clunking sound. He pushed it open and then paused, reaching backward with one hand, fingers waggling slightly. Greg stared for a moment, lost on the pavement, before he comprehended, placing his palm in Mycroft’s and allowing himself to be led gently into the house.


	3. The Two Lonely People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is going up just a little early. I hope you don't mind too much. :)
> 
> Uncountable thanks to my early readers who have continued to be so encouraging as I write this story. I couldn't do it without your support. Thank you so much.

Greg’s hand trembled for a moment, and then Mycroft gave it a slight squeeze, running his thumb along the back as he led him across the threshold.

“Would you like something to drink, to settle you?”

Greg was reassured - this was a dance he knew the steps to. “Yeah, that’d be great, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I would offer you a coffee, but it’s a bit late for caffeine. Wouldn’t want you to be up all night, now would we?”

Greg raised an eyebrow at Mycroft’s cheeky smirk. “And what if I want to be up all night?” He dug up some confidence and stepped closer to Mycroft, bringing them chest to chest. He brought their joined hands up to his lips, reversing their grip and placing a light kiss on the back.

“Then I shall have to offer you coffee in the morning, shan’t I?”

“Such a gentleman,” Greg smiled against the skin at his lips. He dragged a kiss to the base of Mycroft’s thumb before slipping the whole digit inside his mouth.

Mycroft’s gaze sharpened and his lips parted around a gasp. Surprise or arousal, Greg wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. His teeth scraped gently against the middle joint as he pulled back and pushed forward again,  just a little. Greg revelled in the rasp of fingerprints against his tongue. A little sucking pressure did the trick as a small moan fell from his lover’s mouth.

He moaned a little, too as fingers wrapped around his jaw, and Mycroft’s thumb applied a downward pressure against his tongue. Mycroft used his grip to draw him forward, pressing a kiss against the corner of his lips before releasing him. He turned and moved toward the sideboard where an array of liquors were arranged in fancy crystal bottles. Greg adjusted himself while Mycroft’s back was turned.

“May I pour you a drink?”

Greg’s brain stuttered. He thought they were past the drinking part of the evening and on to other activities at this point. His blood was rushing in his ears and he felt on the wrong foot. Did he make a mistake? How did he read the cards so wrong? What was Mycroft waiting for? Had he been too forward?

“Uh, yeah, that’s fine,” he said, then grimaced at his botched attempt at nonchalance. “I’ll have a - “

“I have something I’d like you to try,” Mycroft broke in smoothly. “Leave it to me.” Clinking crystal sounded across the darkened room - no one had bothered to turn on a light. The tall windows only allowed in glow from the streetlamps and security lights on surrounding buildings.

“Oh.” Yet another stupid thing to say. Why couldn’t he think of something clever? At this rate he’d be put out on the doorstep like a disappointing dog. His trousers were still tight from the teasing in the car - he resisted the urge to shuffle his feet and forced his body to still.  He chewed absently on his lip. Imagining Mycroft’s hand back in his mouth made it worse. He sternly willed himself not to say anything else as Mycroft walked smoothly back to him and pressed a cool glass tumbler into his hand.

Mycroft collected Greg’s coat along with his own and hung them up on a coat tree by the door.

“There we are,” he said. “Why don’t you follow me into the study?” he suggested, but didn’t wait for a reply before turning away again and leading Greg out of the room. Greg followed cautiously, trying to make out the details of the room in the dark, but not wanting to look like he was casing the joint. Large picture frames and gleaming metal fixtures ghosted out of the dark, but he didn’t care much to investigate.

He followed Mycroft over near the fireplace to a pair of leather armchairs which were settled opposite one another on top of a very expensive (Greg assumed) plush rug. He waved his hand, indicating that Greg should take a seat, while taking the armchair closest to the wall for himself.

Greg’s chair was positioned with its back to the entrances. His neck hair prickled. Why were they sitting here instead of... _you know?_ A smart cosmopolitan politician like Mycroft couldn’t _possibly_ have lured him here just for drinks and conversation. Not after what he’d said in the car. The way the man had touched him - possessive, without any shame at all.

Greg was no slouch on current events - political shit tended to roll downhill, after all - but he doubted the man wanted to talk about work, and he probably wasn't interested in the latest football scores or the details of his latest case, which were confidential anyway. He brought his glass to his nose, investigating the drink he was given. A dark smoky aroma wafted into his nostrils. His eyes closed as he tipped a sip onto his tongue - cool and smooth. A low groan emerged from his chest as he swallowed. God, that was good. He savored the aftertaste. Might not get another chance to try anything this fine again. He was going to enjoy every drop he could, while he could.

Mycroft chuckled, “Ah yes. I thought you might appreciate that one. A foreign dignitary gifted that to me last year for helping him out of, shall we say “a tight spot”, and only now do I have someone with whom I’d like to share the experience.”

“Well you can consider me grateful,” Greg breathed. “And a welcome audience for anything else you’d like to share,” He threw the man a cheeky wink, trying to suss him out.

Mycroft let out a tutting sound. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now. Good company takes patience.”

Greg felt inexplicably chastened. Of course Mycroft didn’t want his clumsy advances. If only he could think of something suave to say.

Mycroft looked the Greg up and down, with a thoughtful expression. His mouth pulled down a touch, seeming to pick up on his discomfort. “Please.” His tone was earnest.  “I’d like you to be comfortable while you’re here. I wonder if you’d allow me the liberty of making a suggestion.”

“‘Course,” Greg said. At this point, he was nearly begging for direction on how to get himself back on track in this situation. Desperate not to make a fool of himself while trying to snag the most elegant man who’d made him an offer in decades.

“I would like you to untie your shoes,” he said, “remove them, and place them over there by the wall.”

His...shoes? That’s not normally where he would have started with taking clothes off. He sought Mycroft’s eyes in the dim light, and his expression was...keen. Right. _Trust_. Greg slowly placed his glass on the side table next to him, and bent over, a little self-conscious. He picked out the laces as he untied them, and slipped the Oxfords off his feet, tucking the draping laces inside. He supposed Mycroft was a fellow who appreciated neatness, and somehow this felt like a test. He lifted his eyes to meet the man’s gaze again, and Mycroft nodded ever so slightly to the side, indicating again where Greg should put his shoes.

Greg slowly eased out of the chair. Was he doing this right? He bent over to pick up his shoes, and walked them over to the wall, placing them quietly by the doorway and instinctively aligning them together. Vulnerability seeped into him through his socks. He didn’t think there was a sexy way to remove shoes, and usually he toed them off in a hurry to take off his trousers, not as a prelude to...whatever this was. The cold leeched into his toes from the floor’s stone tiles. Standing in his stocking feet and stepping away from his Oxfords felt strangely like abandoning a layer of armour.

He turned to face Mycroft and gestured his arms aside from his body, as if presenting himself for inspection.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly. He seemed oddly sincere, and his gaze remained intensely focused. Like saying _please_ , Greg wondered how often he said _thank you_ to anyone as well. He got the feeling that, though he seemed utterly practiced and in control, Mycroft didn’t indulge in these sorts of partnerships frequently. Greg was curious. Why him? Why now? Why approach him and direct him in this manner? But, like jazz, Greg decided to let him lead. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be disappointed, whatever the outcome.

Mycroft’s gaze traveled over him, absorbing all the details and nuances of his day, Greg supposed. Like Sherlock did, only nothing wretched came out of his mouth afterward. Instead, Mycroft’s lips settled into a quietly pleased smile. His shoulders tipped back as he sat up quite straight in his chair, as though he was coming to attention.

The man held out his hand, palm upturned in invitation for Greg to come closer.

Greg walked over softly. Something about the dark and the quiet felt...sacred. Safe. He placed his palm in Mycroft’s, and Mycroft closed his fingers gently around his fingers - not pulling, just...safekeeping.

Greg felt a bit stupid standing there in just his socks. What now? Mycroft’s palm was warm and dry, thumb sweeping gently over the back of his hand again.

Mycroft reached down behind his back and retrieved a square purple cushion. Greg raised his eyebrows as Mycroft spread his thighs to each side and placed the cushion on the floor between his feet. He pulled Greg gently to stand directly in front of him, and the unspoken question lingered in the air.

Greg trembled, then lowered himself slowly to his knees in front of the poshest man he’d ever known. Warmth from Mycroft’s body heat eased up from the pillow into his knees. Mycroft took their joined hands and settled Greg’s hand palm down over one knee, then reached for his own belt. The buckle jingled as it was undone and laid aside.

Greg circled his fingertips across the warmed trouser fabric on Mycroft’s knee. The fine weave was luxurious to the touch, and the pinstripes highlighted the length of the legs spread in front of him. But mostly he was looking at the way the subtle lines bulged around Mycroft’s knuckles as he reached into his pants and pulled himself out. Greg shuffled a touch, resettling on his knees just a little bit closer as Mycroft ghosted his free hand behind Greg’s ear. Not touching just...guiding. A request.

He could feel the warmth from Mycroft’s palm radiate on the side of his face. He desperately wanted to press his cheek into the cupped hand, but…perhaps this wasn’t that kind of encounter. He had never had the sense before that Mycroft enjoyed sentiment, and he wasn’t about to put that kind of pressure on the delicate atmosphere in the room. Just follow along, he told himself. Just do as you’re asked. It would be alright.

Greg smoothed his palms down the thighs in front of him instead, leading the way, then lowered his nose to the inseam and dragged a breath along from knee to thigh. He revelled in the way the soft fabric caressed his face, in the drag of the weave on his lips. Mycroft’s hand followed just behind, a shadow touch. Greg parted his mouth as he reached the man’s hand wrapped around the base and sucked in a knuckle, applying the barest hint of teeth before releasing and moving downward. He burrowed his hands into the crease of Mycroft’s hips, applying a firm grip as he sucked a testicle into his mouth.

He heard and felt Mycroft take in a breath. Mycroft’s back arched against his waistcoat as he lifted up his hips a little and spread his thighs as wide as the chair would allow. The sound was electrifying for Greg. He was delighted to have caused such a reaction.

God. There was nothing like the smell of a clean man mixed with the leather of the chair and the whisky still on his palate. If he could bottle that and wear it around town, he would. The scent of the most expensive fuck he’d ever have. He moaned against the taste in his mouth, sucking gently and greedily attempting to fill as much of his mouth as possible before releasing the tender skin. He went back for more, saliva coating the side of his mouth. The angle was a touch messy, and the zipper occasionally scraped his cheek but he couldn’t stop. His tongue lapped over the skin, desperate to taste as much of him as he could.

Mycroft’s thumb brushed his ear. Greg was rock hard, and the touch sent him spiraling. He moaned again as the man’s hand settled on his neck, thumb traveling the length of his jaw. There was no pressure applied - it was a _please_ and a _thank you_ all at once.

“ _Gregory,”_ the man groaned above him.

Greg’s heart soared. He pressed his hips forward into the chair and rubbed himself upward against it once, seeking relief. He wasn’t going to get far that way, but he was desperate for something - _anything_ \- to touch him. He was _throbbing_ and the smell of the man made everything more urgent.

“ _Greg_ .” The sleek voice above him had gone rough, pitching lower. “ _Please_ ,”

There it was again. Greg allowed the sac to slip from his mouth and he drew his nose up and down the shaft that was pulsing above Mycroft’s grip. His mouth watered as he sucked gently at the side of the glans. Little teasing kisses around the side of the crown. He felt powerful all of a sudden. It was a heady feeling, knowing a man like this had chosen him. That he could fill a need. Selected. Wanted.

Seen.

He licked the top of the crown and let it slide inside his mouth. The weight on his tongue was intoxicating. He groaned around his mouthful as he started to slide down. The cock in his mouth pulsed, and Greg’s twitched in sympathy.

A second hand applied itself to the other side of his face, cradling his jaw in a controlled grip. Not forceful, but as though Mycroft were holding back from simply shoving him down to the root until he gagged. The implied action made him harder as he slipped his mouth downward as far as he could go. He didn’t need to be forced - Greg would give the man what he wanted. Mycroft’s thumb caressed his cheek, feeling himself inside Greg’s mouth.

Mycroft had a long cock - too long to fit neatly in one go - but he gave it his best. He placed his hand at the root, replacing Mycroft’s grip, covering the distance his lips couldn’t reach, and helping to stabilize the length as he pulled back. Greg luxuriated in the way that skin dragged across his tongue, heavy and warm and fragrant.

He set up a rhythm, up and down, applying his tongue in long sweeps, sucking around the glans here and there. The muscles in Mycroft’s legs quivered in their attempt to hold his hips still. His heavy breathing interspersed with soft cries was all the encouragement Greg needed. Greg stepped up his intensity, speeding up the slide of his lips around the top, and stroking the bottom half with his hand. Mycroft cried out and it felt like a gift. It had been a while, but Greg was good at this. After years of women, the sense of it came rushing back to him - he remembered the scent of stale beer and the pulsing thud of club music - this was leagues away from that world. He felt like a high-class accessory, now - the first time he’d felt like a high-class anything.

“Wait.” A hand slid back and gripped a small handful of hair between the fingers, tugging lightly in protest. The grip on his hair zinged to his cock, a direct line to a leaky valve. Christ he could feel himself slick in his underwear. He wanted to take his pants off, but the threat of nearly ruining himself in his trousers was humbling and thrilling all at once. He hadn’t been this worked up since...he couldn’t remember. Surely he shouldn’t be so close already. No one had even put a hand on him.

“Wait. Not yet.”

Greg stopped his motions, frozen in place, but didn’t release the man from his mouth. He swallowed a little around Mycroft’s cock, sucking lightly. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop himself.

Mycroft nudged his head up and off, and the erection twitched in front of Greg’s nose as he breathed air over the wet tip. No wait, Greg thought. Not yet. Please, I can do it. Let me do it. Being denied the opportunity to prove himself was a little crushing. He balled his fists up, trying not to grasp at Mycroft’s fancy clothes. He wouldn’t beg - he could respect boundaries.

“You’re exquisite,” the other man breathed out. “Doing so well for me. Exactly like I asked.” He petted Greg’s hair some more, ruffling through the strands in the back and combing upwards through the short hairs at his neck.

Greg’s heart swelled - he wanted to preen. His muscles went lax and pliant, and his fists relaxed again. He plucked at the elbow of Mycroft’s shirt a little, feeling the soft cotton slide against his hands. God - he hadn’t heard an honest “well done” from anyone who mattered in ages. It settled a fractured place in his chest. He could still be a good lover, please someone. Allison’s words hurt a little less in their wake. Someone important - special -  thought he was good - doing a good job. He might be struggling on his current case, bad at keeping a wife happy. But this. He could be good at this.

“You’re stunning like this.” The posh syllables rolled like pearls over Greg’s ears. Greg stayed still, not wanting to displace the clever fingers scrolling over his scalp in a gentle soothing scrub. The praise had turned into a drug. Mycroft dragged a thumb over Greg’s lips, shying away when Greg tried to suck it into his mouth again.

“Take your shirt off. I want to see you.” The demand was gentled by a soft stroke down his neck.

Greg took off his tie and set it aside. His fingers fumbled at his buttons, releasing them from the top down in jerky movements as he wrenched them out of the holes. His body swayed into the cradle of Mycroft’s thighs, grounding himself.

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft purred, stroking his hair some more. “Take your time.” He ran the fingers of one hand through the wiry chest hair now bared. Greg’s nipples tightened as wandering hands passed over them. His shirt slid off his arms, falling forgotten to the floor behind him. The vest followed. He wasn’t ashamed of his body - work kept him active and he maintained some free weights at home when he was thinking. But he had never been examined like this before.

It was unsettling. Dark blue eyes roamed over him with a sharpness like Sherlock’s that surely deduced everything there was to know. His ears tingled as they heated under his gaze and he placed his hands back on the man’s knees, gripping slightly. He closed his eyes. Whatever Mycroft saw in him, found lacking, he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t stand to be measured and then exposed in this moment - he would surely crumble. Easier to avoid the answer than to be proven right.

“Gregory.”

He opened his eyes and stared back at Mycroft. A man with his hard cock waving out of his pants like that had no business looking so sharp - so poised. But Mycroft looked nothing but in control, as though he could hold a cabinet meeting this way, and no one would dare tell the emperor he wasn’t wearing any clothes. Only Mycroft wasn’t silly like the fairy tale. He looked strikingly virile. His dignity was fully clothed, even as his body was half naked.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he stated firmly, but quiet in the dark. “I want you to look at me. Understand?”

Greg’s lungs were defective, so he just nodded.

“Stand up for me.”

He stood, his trousers tenting and his heart rabbiting away. Why did he feel as though he were falling off a mountain when just moments ago he had been on the ground? He ached. No one had touched his cock since they left the car. It felt like a thousand teasing years ago.

Mycroft tucked his fingers at the top of Greg’s trousers and eased open the button. Greg’s abdomen clenched, as Mycroft’s hands - so close to where he wanted - _needed_ them, pulled at his clothing. The zipper was drawn down and the man eased his hand inside, feeling Greg pulse hard against his palm through his cotton shorts. Someone whimpered, and Greg suspected it might be him but he couldn’t say. He was doing his best not to explode on the spot, partly from nerves but mostly because this - whatever this was - was working on him in a visceral way.

Mycroft’s hands shuffled his trousers down, easing his pants over his extended cock and down his thighs, dropping everything to the floor where he stood. His eyes remained locked on Greg’s face. Searching - evaluating. But for what? Greg had no idea. Surely if he was waiting for Greg to back out of anything, to say no - Greg couldn’t imagine that Mycroft was unaware of the effect he was having. Greg was willing, desperate to participate.

Greg toed off his socks with a slight stumble, and in a moment he stood naked in a puddle of clothing. Cool air prickled his skin, making his leg hairs rise. He waited. Ordinarily he thought he would feel a bit silly standing around in just his socks - but Mycroft’s eyes tread eagerly over his skin, tracing over the aged tattoo on his bicep, the scar under his left rib, the burn mark on his thigh, the twice-broken toe. It was clear Mycroft wasn’t bored at all. Wasn’t playing. He was getting something out of this - of having Greg stand there like a statue to be admired. Watching his cock drool with his pulse and hearing his breath shudder in and out.

He reached down to touch his cock - god, he was _so hard_ \- but Mycroft shook his head slightly and Greg’s arms returned to his sides.

“Come here.”

Greg shuffled his feet free of the tangle and stepped back up to the chair, dipping to kneel again before Mycroft caught his elbow and tugged him closer, guiding him to straddle his lap instead. Greg slid as close as he could, the drag of fabric on the sensitive inside of his legs nearly undid him. Greg drew an index finger down the row of shiny red buttons in front of him until his fingertip reached where their cocks met, pressing them together with a long, eager sigh. Mycroft smiled enigmatically before grasping Greg’s wrists and placing his hands on the armrests on each side of the chair.

Greg quaked as he stared into Mycroft’s eyes, waiting for directions.

The man lifted his hands to cradle Greg’s face again, sliding a thumb across his bottom lip - he kept doing that. Greg flattered himself to think that Mycroft must enjoy his mouth, to keep touching it like that. Their faces were so close that Greg could smell the slight tang of whiskey on Mycroft’s breath. The smell invaded their space, tangled up in the scent of the man’s expensive cologne and the musk of the fluid welling from the tip of his shaft. Greg indulged himself, licking the tip of the thumb before taking it in his mouth once again. If he couldn’t have the man’s cock in his mouth, he’d do the best he could with this. Maybe he could entice him to let him give it another go. His hips pressed forward and he let out a breathy moan as their cocks slid against one another. He settled his hands more firmly on the arm of the chair, clutching and releasing. If only he could bury his hands in that gorgeous waistcoat instead - grab onto the tie tucked underneath and _devastate_ it, slide a hand through the tidy auburn hair. That red brocade was was asking to be covered in a mess, and even if Mycroft didn’t touch him, he felt like he was about to pop. He wanted to shove him down and make him give in. Show him how good it could be - how good he was. Prove it.

“You’re an absolute delight.” Greg’s brain went nuclear and he sucked harder, digging his fingers into the leather, trying desperately to keep his hands off himself as his hips kicked forward again.

Mycroft’s fingers tugged sharply in Greg’s hair - a warning, and his eyes popped open again. The pain tingled through his scalp making him gasp out a whine and Greg swiped his tongue across the finger in his mouth in apology. He locked his eyes on Mycroft’s again.

Mycroft released his head and eased his other hand away from Greg’s mouth, sliding down his neck. It traveled down his chest and pinched a nipple. Greg definitely didn’t squeal. The wet streak of saliva cooled on his skin.

“Please.” Now it was his turn to beg. He’d been so patient. He wanted to be touched, wanted to touch Mycroft, to make a mark on that pale, long neck. The craving to bite was unbearable. He wanted to taste him.

Long fingers wrapped around his cock and Greg cried out, pressing his chest forward. He wanted to crawl closer, to rip off that waistcoat, those shirtsleeves and feel skin to skin.

One long stroke up and down brought Greg _so_ close - his release was imminent. He’d never forgive himself if he ended things now and let Mycroft down. He’d been on the edge for what felt like ages and his eyes closed again against his will. Tears welled in the corners and he felt a warm breath on his neck a moment before teeth settled into the muscle on the side. He gasped out a feverish groan. The pressure of the bite was threatening his self control. Lips trailed down his neck teeth scraping here and there. He hoped there were marks. He wanted proof tomorrow, that this hadn’t all been a fantasy.

He couldn’t take it anymore - his hands released their cramped grip from the chair and he threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair - silky to the touch and damp at the base - humidity causing the fine hairs to curl around his fingers. He drew the other man’s head firmly backward from where he was nibbling and registered the delightful look of surprise on Mycroft’s face before he covered those beautiful lips with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing from you<3!
> 
> Please come say hi, here, or on Tumblr/Twitter @paialovespie
> 
> This chapter's title is a reference to "The Two Lonely People" by Bill Evans.


	4. In A Sentimental Mood

Mycroft gasped into his mouth and pressed a thumb to the corner of Greg’s lips, feeling where they were joined. Greg couldn’t breathe. Who cared. He had the rest of his life to breathe. But he might never be allowed this close again. Their tongues slid together - Mycroft’s lip was soft and plush as Greg drew it through his teeth before going back for more. Reaching deeper. It was impossible to hold back the moan building in his chest, and if it turned into a whimper when Mycroft sucked on his tongue, who could blame him? God, if he could just crawl inside the man, he would. Invade his skin, inhale him. Greg pressed his hips closer until he felt Mycroft’s cock swell and pulse in answer. His body set up a rhythmic pace, nudging against him, their cocks catching and sliding. Letting go of Mycroft’s lips was unthinkable. His heart stretched as their mouths worked. He wanted all of him. All at once.

Greg released Mycroft’s head to grasp his tie in a sweaty palm. He would never forget how the fabric slid so beautifully through his fingers - expensive silk, no doubt. Daring, he pulled it free of that gorgeous waistcoat and tore at the knot, releasing its grip and drawing it downward away from the world’s longest neck. The silky end of it fluttered against the wet head of their erections before it was tossed aside. Then he went to work on that blasted shirt collar, nosing his fingers down between fabric and neck - trying to get his hand on any bit of skin he could reach.

Poems should be written about the bump of Mycroft’s adam's apple. He wanted to bury his face as deep into the shirt as he could. Never had he found a scent so intoxicating. The buttons were stressed until they released and Greg breathed in deep as skin-warm air fluttered up from Mycroft’s damp chest.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he might feel shame about behaving so wantonly, but right now he was determined to seize as much of Mycroft as he possibly could, before...before. He didn’t want to think about it, about what would happen after. Greg released the kiss and used his grip to tip Mycroft’s head to the side. The tender skin of his neck was soft between Greg’s lips. At least he could have this. For now. It would have to be enough.

Mycroft let out a harsh breath as his hips squirmed beneath them. He eased a hand between them and grasped their lengths together. Greg cried out into the warm skin against his mouth as he swelled almost painfully in Mycroft’s grip. Those long fingers were criminal, sinful against his skin, and the friction was incredible - almost too much. He prayed he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Disappoint Mycroft.

Greg felt Mycroft’s moan against his lips and it felt like victory. The cry sounded like it was torn out of his chest, feral, all his posh diction sliding away into an animal groan. Despair rose in his soul as Mycroft’s hand sped up. Wait. No, no, not yet. Not already. But it was too late.  
Greg was undone. His thighs trembled - his spine stretched, leaning into the touch before collapsing forward and biting into the man’s shoulder through his shirt. The world disappeared for a moment as he tremored into Mycroft’s embrace. He felt an answering wet slide on his cock, and realized distantly that Mycroft had finished too.

Sound washed around his ears, his pulse the only thing he could hear. His hands trembled on the back of Mycroft’s neck. The sensations washed through him, over him, as though he was sitting under the sea with waves pushing and pulling above him. His fingertips played with the ends of Mycroft’s hair.

A warm palm slowly swept down Greg’s back, from neck to tailbone and back as he sat curled in the man’s lap. Easing. Gentling. As though he were a nervous horse in the mounted units. It was unexpectedly tender. A sheen of sweat cooled on his back as he sat naked astride a suit that cost more than the rent on his flat. His trembling turned into a shiver and the hands stopped their motion.

The intensity of his emotion was strangling, and a tendril fear set in. Don’t make me go. Not yet. I’m not ready. I can still be. Useful. Good. Whatever you need. Mycroft had gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? And hadn’t Greg, too? No one signed up for Greg to get all emotional - he had known what this was before he stepped into it. Only...only this wasn’t exactly what he expected at first...was it? It had transformed into...into this. He didn’t have a word for this - there was no one on earth quite like this man.

His heart was still racing, but a sick dose of adrenaline coursed through his nerves at the thought of being asked to leave. A politician like Mycroft knew how to ask politely, he was sure. But he shouldn’t make him do that. Common sense said he should just clean up and put his clothes on, instead of being a coward hiding his face in the man’s shirt.

Right.

“I should.. Um.” He gestured weakly away from them both, indicating (he hoped) a request for directions to a place where he could wash up. At least put his pants back on. Put his armor back on. Fix what he was sure was a stupid needy look on his face.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said. He put a clean hand on Greg’s chin to steady him and looked him straight on for a moment. He leaned gently forward and pressed a light touch of a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Greg froze into stillness.

He was determined not to smear his messy emotions all over this. He blinked away a sudden wash of moisture that tried to intrude into his eyes. Don’t you dare, he told himself. A fancy controlled man like Mycroft would likely not appreciate a naked crying man in his lap.

“There we go,” Mycroft said. “Ease yourself up slowly.”

His hand steadied Greg’s side as he slid off the man’s lap to stand amongst his clothes again. The ache in his knees reminded him he was too old to be kneeling like that all evening and Greg used the discomfort to ground himself. Now he did feel stupid. Exposed, standing in the middle of his crumpled clothing, pants a rumpled mess around his feet. He swiped a hand over his mouth, trying to school his face.

Mycroft stood, reaching for his waistcoat buttons and undoing them one by one. The beautiful red brocade was thoroughly soiled. Probably beyond recovery. Greg was torn. I did that, he thought, desperately glad to have evidence that this wasn’t all a dream, and simultaneously ashamed to have ruined something so lovely. Mycroft shrugged it carelessly to the floor next to Greg’s socks where it sat in a heap and then eased out of his shirt as well, wiping his hand clean on the sleeve before dropping that to the ground too. Next, he removed his shoes. Then his socks. Then trousers. Then pants. Until he stood utterly nude, the same as Greg.

Greg stared at him. He was unduly captured by Mycroft’s toes. They were long and straight. The nails were neat and tidy, and the skin was very pale. Veins were visible, blue under the skin. Feet were such a vulnerable thing to know about a person. He was used to the man being so buttoned up from top to bottom that the image before him was incongruous. All that naked skin - he knew what it tasted like. Smelled like. Knew what the man’s tongue felt like. It felt like secret knowledge. He would never be allowed to tell someone about this. He didn’t want to be disappeared, but moreover, he couldn’t bear to expose Mycroft’s secrets. Couldn’t stand the thought of telling someone, and not being believed.

Mycroft stepped to the side and held out his hand once again, waiting. Again, Greg placed his palm in his grasp and allowed himself to be led. If they were leaving the clothes behind, maybe he would be allowed to stay a little longer. Touch some more. The gentle grip felt like a lifeline as they moved down the corridor off the main room into a large bathroom.

It was large - nearly the size of the main room in Greg’s flat. A shower was tucked on one side, but the large tub was certainly the showpiece, sitting opposite the doorway. Dark burgundy walls reached upward to a white ceiling, and dark wooden wainscoting below, feeling elegant and decadent.

Greg’s eyes roamed over Mycroft’s back as they walked in together, noting the light freckling over the shoulders. If he tried very hard, he might be able to commit this to memory. How the sweep of his spine rolled downward into a backside that Greg was desperate to touch. They had been intimate, yes, but there was so much left to explore. If he only got this one chance, he wanted to experience as much of him as he could. Tuck it away in his mind, that once, he had been good enough to satisfy this man. No one could take that knowledge away from him.

“Gregory, I’d like you to make yourself at home in the bath. I have a few small matters to take care of, and then I’ll join you shortly.” Mycroft released his hand with a small squeeze.

“I, oh.” Someday he would get out a full sentence. He could talk to lawyers and judges and criminals and the press with authority and confidence. But tonight he was tongue-tied, his tired brain simply content to acquiesce.

“Make use of anything you please. I want you to arrange everything to your satisfaction. I’ll return in a few minutes.” With that, he pulled a plum-colored silk kimono from the back of the door and pulled it over his arms, belting it around his waist as he walked out, leaving Greg standing adrift in the middle of the poshest bathroom in London.

To my satisfaction, he thought. He’d never had a fancy bath in his life. He wandered over to start the water running while he looked through all the little bottles and items to the side, displayed neatly on some decorative shelves. Oils and bubbles and...what the hell was a cupcake lavender bath bomb? He put that back down where he found it, and hopped into the bath, settling into the shallow water as it filled. He investigated the bottles one by one, reading the labels. Cucumber. Alpine. Moss. Green Tea. He felt silly about the bubbles - they were for children. But. Clearly Mycroft had purchased it, and most of the bottles had been opened. Several were in various stages of empty. He picked the one with the most missing - French vanilla and oak - and poured in a few drops.

The bubbles immediately began fluffing under the tap, spreading up and out to cover the surface over Greg’s hips. He dipped his fingers in and swirled them around a bit. The warm scent was comforting and he relaxed backward into the water, sinking into it as the level rose up to creep over his belly, and then his chest. He dipped his head backward to wet his hair, letting the water cover his ears.

His eyes closed. He felt the sway of the water as the tub filled and embraced the percussion of the falling water in his eardrums. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could savor the taste of Mycroft in his mouth, the ghost feeling of knuckles brushing his cheek, the slick of a hand on his cock. His toes wiggled as he committed the details all to memory as best he could. He didn’t have a mind palace like Sherlock, but if there was any mercy in the world, please let him keep this.

A cool touch on his belly startled him and he rose out of the water, eyes opening in a rush to see Mycroft leaning over him with a pleased smile. The man looked somewhat smug, although Greg couldn’t be sure what he was so satisfied about.

“Do you wanna…” he gestured to the water.

“I would like to join you, if you’ll allow me to sit behind you.”

Greg scooted up to make room, bubbles rising around his knees. Mycroft dropped the robe and settled at Greg’s back, long legs reaching around him on either side. A hand wrapped around his belly and pulled backward until Greg was lying on his chest, water nearly to his chin now that Mycroft had displaced it. He turned off the tap with his foot.

Mycroft swept a hand over his wet hair, smoothing it back and swiping bubbles away from his face and ear. Greg turned his head so his ear was resting over Mycroft’s chest. Situated this way, he could feel the rise and fall of his breath, hear his pulse.

“I see you chose the vanilla. It’s quite a nice scent, isn’t it?” Mycroft said. A warm glow built under Greg’s rib cage. He had chosen right. “I thought you might forego the bubbles, at first. I imagine it’s not something that factors into your daily routine.” His voice sounded like he was smiling. He smoothed a hand over Greg’s chest, playing with the wiry, greying hairs and scratching lightly up and down the center.

“Mmmnooo,” Greg slurred. The warm bath and recent orgasm made his body drowsy and relaxed. He fluttered his hand in the water, feeling the slide and resistance between his fingers. He squashed a few bubbles between his fingers, then felt inexplicably guilty about it. “Can’t say there’s much pampering in my day-to-day. Not much use on an old grey copper like me,” he added with a rueful grin.

“Hmmm. That’s a shame,” Mycroft rumbled, moving his hand from chest to belly. His fingers investigated Greg’s belly button and Greg squirmed away.

“S’ticklish,” he complained weakly.

“My apologies.” Mycroft’s hands moved along to each side, running up the ribs and then sweeping down over his belly in large, slow, rhythmic circles, establishing almost a figure eight pattern. Greg breathed deep, syncing with the rhythm and letting his body float a little. He rubbed his palm over Mycroft’s knee, tickling the hairs, investigating the rise and fall of the kneecap, before trailing his hand down the outside of Mycroft’s thigh. Christ, Mycroft had legs like a grasshopper. Or a model. He was certainly tall enough. He could wind them all the way ‘round his middle with room to spare. If it were earlier in the evening, Greg might have had a few more thoughts about that, but he was quite content for now - just floating and feeling. Indulging while he could. He didn’t want to think too far ahead. This, here, now - it was nice. Best not to borrow trouble.

Mycroft breathed deep a few times, seeming to hesitate. Greg opened his eyes and tipped his head up to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “M’ I too heavy? I can move.” He bunched up to move away before Mycroft’s arm banded firmly around his chest, stilling him. Greg slowly settled backwards again, but tension had crept into his muscles and wasn’t so easily dissipated. He kept his eyes on Mycroft. “What’s wrong,” he asked again, quieter this time. Surely he couldn’t have mis-stepped so quickly. Had he been meant to wash and go? But Mycroft had said...A fluttery panic began to poison his lungs.

“Gregory.”

“Yeah?” His hand gripped tighter on Mycroft’s thigh.

“Gregory...”

Greg was concerned now. Mycroft’s arm tightened further, keeping him in place. Greg placed his hand on Mycroft’s forearm instead, soothing back and forth. Selfish, he told himself. It’s not always about what you want.

“S’alright, Mycroft. It’s okay. I can go if you need.” He gave the arm a little pat. “I know you’ve prob’ly got things to be doing.” His heart creaked. Stupid. He had known this was coming, he just didn’t expect it to be so quick. They hadn’t even actually washed anything.

“No, please.” Mycroft’s other hand reached up and covered Greg’s, clasping it so he couldn’t let go. “I wondered... if you...hadn’t any plans for the remainder of the evening... if you...” He paused, “..if you might be willing to stay a little longer.”


	5. My Foolish Heart

Sound rushed in Greg’s ears like he was still underwater. His hand trembled under Mycroft’s, just a touch. He willed his lip to stop wobbling immediately. His throat was tight - he swallowed a few times trying to ease the constriction, feeling warmth building in his chest. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Greg felt Mycroft brush against the top of his wet hair - a kiss?

“I understand if you’d rather not... If you’ve got previous arrangements for tonight. I did say you could leave anytime you like, and I shall honor that agreement.” He smoothed a thumb over Greg’s wrist, as Greg said nothing. There was a pause. Then, “I’ll call you a car to take you home.” The tone was difficult to place.

“No!” Greg blurted. Too loudly - the sound echoed off the tile, reprimanding him. “No,” he said again, calmer. “I... I’ve got no plans. I can stay.” Please let him stay. Just a little longer. Just until he found his equilibrium again. Then he’d compose himself and head home without a fuss. But not yet. 

Mycroft seemed to consider his next words. He threaded Greg’s fingers with his own in a firm grip over Greg’s chest. The weight of his arms was settling, gentling his nerves a little. Hopefully he hadn’t ballsed it up already. 

“Then.. would you consider it imposing if I asked you to stay until morning? I’d be very happy to provide you with breakfast, and transport you anywhere you’d like to go, whenever you wish….”

Greg bit his lip. Mycroft sounded like he was stopping himself from saying more. Then...it clicked. He understood, now. A posh gentleman like Mycroft probably wasn’t accustomed to overnight guests. Probably didn’t know how to ask. He wondered how many men he’d invited into his home like this. Surely he didn’t have droves of old lads past their prime marinating themselves in his bubble bath. Breakfast was certainly above and beyond the norm, for hookups, anyway. Was that what this was? 

A powerful man like Mycroft though...he probably had “company” arranged on his behalf. All the details taken care of already - probably by that fancy assistant of his. Greg knew these steps, though. He knew all about spending the night. He could help. He smiled and kissed the bit of chest he could reach. 

“Yes. I’d love to stay, but first…” He squeezed their twined fingers. Mycroft tensed against his back. “First I have to know. Why did the waiter at the club call you ‘Mick’?”

“Scoundrel,” Mycroft huffed, relaxing his grip. If he sounded more than a little relieved, well. It was only the two of them who would witness it. 

Greg felt a tiny thrill at his amusement. Successfully breaking the tension a bit - he had done well. 

“Jeremy has quite the cheek, and it’s somewhat of a long story.”

Greg rubbed his nose against his own bicep, trying to dislodge a bubble without releasing their clasped hands. “Lucky for you, I’ve just agreed to stay until morning.”

“Technically, it is already morning,” Mycroft teased, a smile in his voice.

“I’m a cop. I know evasion when I hear it.” He shouldn’t press, he knew. Mycroft’s secrets were his own. Curiosity got the better of him, though. They said it’’s what made him a good cop.

“Well I certainly won’t tell you all I know about resisting interrogation, because then I’d have to have you disposed of. And that would be an honest shame.” Mycroft squeezed him gently. 

Greg went a little boneless at the pressure. He lost his train of thought briefly, simply enjoying the sensation of being held. The sensation was novel - being held like this. With Allison, he was always the big spoon. Looking out, protecting, holding. A tremulous quake took hold of his insides. There was something viscerally satisfying about being taken care of. Just for a while, he could stand down. He was unpracticed at this, but relaxing into the embrace came naturally, as though his bones already knew this dance.

The pause had been too long… he regrouped himself to return the banter before Mycroft noticed anything amiss. “So...Mick. Tell me about this jazz club, then.” Mycroft’s resistance had the feel of habit about it, rather than deliberate unwillingness to share. He probably dodged questions all the time from political officials. Learning to tell some version of the truth. Likely Mycroft wouldn’t tell him the real story, either, but he suspected the answer would be entertaining anyway. 

“It so happens that I enjoy jazz,” Mycroft said, a touch defensively. 

“Well so do I, but you don’t see me on a stage anywhere.”

“Can you play?” Mycroft asked. “Or sing? I didn’t know that about you.”

“Well, I can sing a bit but I…hey wait! Nah, you’ve got to answer first. No derailing me - spill. I want to know more about you. We can talk about karaoke night later.”

“That suggests you’ve got experience with karaoke night. Don’t think I won’t remember this later,” he teased. “In any case, to answer your question...a number of years ago, I became known to a young man who had some entanglements with the law,” he began.

Greg smiled, curling back against Mycroft’s chest. His torso was not quite as long, so Mycroft’s chin rested just over his shoulder when he was leaning back like this. As Mycroft spoke, his breath wafted over Greg’s ear. He could feel the vibrations of Mycroft’s voice travel through his ribcage. All of him was surrounded by the man, right down to the skeleton. Their position effectively immobilized him, all wrapped up together, and his legs were framed by Mycroft’s in the water, from hip to calf. He felt entirely secure like this - enveloped by water and skin, and sound. He settled in to listen.

Mycroft reached for the bottles to the side, touching the tops of several before selecting two in particular and bringing them closer. He uncapped one, sniffed it, and then poured a generous amount onto a sponge, working up a lather.

“He was a young aspiring entrepreneur. He needed some financial capital to open a place of business, and I was of a mind to invest in some property and diversify my holdings.”

The touch of the sponge across his chest was heavenly - cedar scent rose in the air as soap was dragged over his skin slowly. Thoroughly. He was undone. He clenched and released his toes as the sponge caressed over his nipples, bringing them to attention. He was trying to pay attention to the story, but an electricity had set up under his skin, humming again. 

“His legal history made a bank loan difficult to obtain, but his business vision fit my purposes perfectly, and I had faith in him. Despite his troubles, which were the result of protecting another, he had a sound business mind.

Mycroft ran the soap down Greg’s arms and up over a shoulder, thoughtfully. 

“The Blue Danube is mine, you see. I own it, but Henrique manages it, and most of the profits are his. In exchange, our agreement states that I’m allowed to play the piano whenever I please, with whomever happens to be booked on the roll for the night. Over time, ownership is gradually being transferred to him.”

Greg reached up with his toes and turned the hot water tap back on. He wanted to warm up the cooling water and refresh some of the fading bubbles, but his body was so relaxed he didn’t want to move from his place in Mycroft’s arms. The air surrounding them was warm and moist, carrying heavy scent with it. 

“And so the staff call you Mick because…?” Greg prompted, lazily.

Greg felt warm lips touch the skin over his trapezius. He sighed. Mycroft set the sponge aside and drew one of Greg’s fingers between his own forefinger and thumb, seeming to investigate the shape and quality of it. Greg knew his nails were rough, bitten short. Calluses and a healing scrape decorated his palm. There was nothing special about them, but he guessed Mycroft was a person who liked to inspect things. Mycroft gently slid soap between his fingers, caressing them. His hands were thorough, leaving no crevice untouched. The stroking went straight to Greg’s cock. It had been slowly awakening, but now it thickened, rising away from Greg’s thighs.

“My assistant arranged all of the legalities and paperwork on my behalf, and, after being rather cross with me that day for events which we won’t bother to detail just now, she put the paperwork under a pseudonym in revenge. And thus, I have been ‘Mick Roft’, ever since. A moniker I’ve been unable to shake, to my everlasting annoyance. Jeremy is Henrique’s nephew, and I was introduced to him that way, and thus the damage is perpetuated.” He huffed a breath out his nose.

Greg chuckled, and swished the new hot water around with his feet, dispersing the temperature more evenly before stopping the tap. 

“I guess it could have been worse,” he said with a quirky grin. “She could have put it under something even more childish if she had wanted to - ‘Mike Rotch’ or ‘Hugh Janus’ or something like that.” If Mycroft was looking for sympathy, he wasn’t likely to find it here. Greg always rooted for the underdog, and he had a feeling that, whatever Mycroft’s opinion on the issue, he probably deserved the payback.

“I can see you’ve had some experience with juvenile prank names.”

“Some of the lads we cuff up - you’ve no idea. If one more young punk tells me his mum named him ‘Seymour Butts, I’ll…” He squashed a few bubbles petulantly. “No respect for authority, these days.” 

Mycroft smiled. “I can’t imagine why,” he said, passing a sponge over Greg’s knee where it poked above the water.

“Don’t judge me,” Greg grumped, spreading his thigh to the side. “You can’t pass criticism on a naked man in a bubble bath. ‘S just not fair.” He arched a little into Mycroft’s hands, hoping for a little more of that stroking touch. 

“No, I suppose it’s rather unsporting, isn’t it,” Mycroft agreed, toying with the peak of a nipple, just a small tease. “Perhaps I shall have to make it up to you.”

“Oh?” Greg perked up a bit. “What did you have in mind?” His cock was starting to take a rapt interest. He could feel Mycroft’s length thickening at his back, although the man didn’t seem to be drawing any attention to it. 

Mycroft smoothed a hand down the back of Greg’s neck. He pushed forward against him, asking Greg wordlessly to sit up. Greg’s skin prickled - the air was cool against his water-warm back. Were they getting out, now? 

“Do you like it?” Mycroft asked him, trailing a finger down his spine.

“The club? Yes, it’s a nice place you’ve got.”

“Being naked in my bath.” Oh. Greg shivered again, for a different reason this time.

“I. Yes?” 

“Tell me what you like about it.”

Everything. Greg liked everything. 

“I...um. Well.” His ability to articulate was rapidly being degraded. The drowsiness from the heat was dissipating quickly - the cool air and Mycroft’s focused attention was lifting him out of his leisurely fog. 

Mycroft stilled his palm on in the center of Greg’s back. Waiting.

He shuddered, suddenly anxious. The weight of Mycroft’s hand was stabilizing and his hand was warm from the water, but. He didn’t know this game. What did Mycroft want to hear? What if he said the wrong thing? He tried again, tensing up a little.

“I like the water,” he said lamely. Mycroft’s thumb caressed his back encouragingly, even as Greg’s shoulders hitched up just a little. 

“I… I like the scents. I didn’t expect you to have so many,” he said. “And...and the hot water. I like the way I float in it a bit. It’s...restful.” 

Mycroft took up the sponge again, drawing it in a line down Greg’s spine. Greg tried to melt into the touch, but Mycroft’s hand braced against him prevented him from leaning back again.  
The petting felt like a reward. He leaned forward a little more, giving the man greater access, hoping he’d keep touching him like this.

“Is that all?” Mycroft’s tone was expectant, as he reached for another bottle and tipped some liquid in his palm. “Surely there’s something else.”

God save him if he ever had to be interrogated by this man. He was at a desperately unfair disadvantage. “I like your hands on me,” Greg admitted to the bubbles. His toes fiddled against the drain for a second. He didn’t know what Mycroft wanted to hear - didn’t know how to say that he’d never felt so safe. So...so cared for. He groped for a sexy answer instead, but couldn’t come up with something that didn’t sound crass.

“I’m delighted you feel that way,” Mycroft said, lowly. “I intend to touch every part of you that you’ll allow.” He placed his hands in Greg’s hair, first smoothing from forehead to nape, then massaging as the shampoo began to lather.

Greg groaned and pressed back into the groping fingers. Playing with his hair was a surefire way to set him on fire. The light scratching on his scalp made his cock jolt. Gentle caresses behind his ears absolutely did him in. He gasped, placing a hand on himself - not stroking, just holding at the base. For now.

“Do you like this too?” Mycroft asked, innocently. 

“Christ. Yes. As if you couldn’t tell.”

“Yes, I can tell. But allow me to tell you what I like.” His hands lowered a touch, massaging the tendons at the base of his skull. 

“I like hearing what you’re thinking - the way you offer me everything I wish to know, and I don’t have to force it from you, or deduce it. I like seeing the way you react to my touch, doing as I ask. Your responses are delightful - don’t hide them from me. I want to hear you. 

Greg gasped, tightening his hand on his length. It was filling out quickly, with Mycroft’s words branding his ears. His face flushed.

“Please.” Mycroft said again. “Tell me how you feel. What you want.”

“I want you again,” Greg blurted. “I want you to touch me. I liked…” he struggled to articulate, “I, I liked being h-held.” What a stupid thing to say. He felt as though he’d wrenched his chest open. His heart was beating hard enough to feel it in his sternum. He was sure Mycroft hadn’t signed up to hear about those kinds of feelings. But. He couldn’t help it - it’s what he craved. He braved forward, scooping out his heart and setting it in Mycroft’s hands. He was sure he’d be let down kindly after it was all said.

“I want to stay the night. I want to come again, feel you come - make you come.” He heaved in a breath, and continued. “I felt - I..I felt safe. Before. Earlier. On my knees for you. With my mouth on you. I liked that. And just now. When your arms were around me.” The words spilled out of him, coming easier. Inertia was, if nothing else, a powerful force. 

Mycroft’s hands continued their gentle soothing, back and forth through his hair, which was surely quite clean by now, but it felt so heavenly.

“I liked feeling your breath on my ear, your hands on me.” Greg’s hands clenched. “I...I want to sit in your lap and kiss you some more,” he admitted with a fragile breath. “I want you to come again.”

“I liked those things also,” Mycroft spoke quietly, rubbing gently down his back. “The way you are stilled by my touch. How you tremble for me. The way you arch into my hands. How you seek to please. I enjoy it immensely.” He guided Greg’s shoulders backwards, toward himself again. Greg leaned back into the man’s chest, enjoying its solidity, before Mycroft’s hands gently pushed downwards on his shoulders.

“I should write a sonnet to your mouth alone,” he said, making Greg’s cheeks flame. “Allow me to rinse your hair” he said, dipping Greg backward.

Greg followed the man’s guiding pressure. His ears became submerged under the water as his head was lowered nearly into Mycroft’s lap, cradled in a steady grip. His knees poked above the waterline as he scrunched down, and his cock was standing at attention now, throbbing and obvious. Exposed.

Mycroft’s hands were gentle as he scooped water over Greg’s scalp, taking care to smooth away any droplets from his face. His fingers rustled gently through the strands as he released any remaining bubbles from Greg’s hair. 

Greg’s pulse pounded in his ears, competing with the muffled sounds of splashing as Mycroft worked. He waited until he felt Mycroft’s hands guide him upwards. His erection was throbbing along with his heartbeat, twitching as those gentle fingers worked over his scalp again. 

Mycroft prevented him from sitting up all the way, maneuvering him to lean back against his chest as they had been situated before. Mycroft hooked his ankles over Greg’s and spread them open, exposing him to Mycroft’s touch.

A groan crawled out of Greg’s chest as Mycroft guided his hands upward, to reach around the back of Mycroft’s head - out of the way. Greg threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, resisting the urge to pull. The man’s hands traveled over his biceps and the intimate touch in his armpits was unexpectedly sensual. No one had bothered to touch him there, before. 

Mycroft hitched Greg’s hips up on his lap, facing outward, propping him out of the water. His hands roamed over Greg’s arched chest, smoothing the skin before spreading his thighs apart and taking his cock in hand.

Greg struggled to breathe. The muscles in his chest were spread wide, nipples tight. His thighs were pulled apart, displayed brazenly in the open air. Mycroft began a quick stroking pull, not allowing him to adjust. Christ, this wasn’t going to take long at all, at this pace. His hips fidgeted until Mycroft braced a hand on the apex of his thigh and clenched down tightly. The forceful grip sent Greg soaring. Pinned down like this, there was no hiding. He didn’t bother stifling his panting breaths and little groans. Mycroft had asked him for this. Asked to hear him like this. Said it was nice - that he liked it. 

The sound of a plastic cap was ignored until Mycroft’s hand came back, slippery and tight, rounding the head and sliding down over his balls. He was not going to survive this. His pulse was wild - felt erratic. He wanted to bite something, but he was stuck like this, with nowhere to go. He turned his head toward Mycroft and panted in his ear. 

“Please,” he said. “Please.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was at Mycroft’s mercy - the man’s hand was slicking him up and down at a steady pace - nothing fancy, but that rhythm was going to send him over the edge quickly.

“Please,” he said again, “Can I..? I need.” He gasped. “Please, I want to..” He did his best to hold himself back, but being stretched out like this, bare and accessible, was really working for him. 

Mycroft’s hand was merciless as Greg hurtled toward the precipice. Greg’s cries grew louder as he drew closer, about to spill. And then Mycroft stopped. Greg’s abdomen convulsed in protest. 

Mycroft bit gently at Greg’s shoulder - that was desperately unfair. Greg was yearning to touch himself, just that last little bit would send him flying. But he kept his hands behind Mycroft’s head where he’d been put, reminding himself to be gentle as he scrabbled at Mycroft’s neck in frustrated impotence. His breath was loud, echoing around them. His cock pulsed as he whimpered little cries. 

Mycroft sucked at his skin, hands completely immobile on Greg’s groin. He murmured soft shushing noises into his shoulder as he held Greg still. 

“Shhhh. You’re doing so well for me. Holding still, just where I’ve put you. Restraining your body for me. You sound delightful - don’t hold back. I want all of it. You can tell me,” he said, sounding greedy. “I want to hear all of you, feel the way you move against me.”

Greg’s chest was bursting. His eyes teared up as his heart fractured. He couldn’t...he wasn’t...didn’t deserve. His thought spun as he scrambled to control himself before Mycroft noticed anything was amiss. No bloke wanted to get cried on in the middle of sex. 

He drew a shuddery breath as he trembled in Mycroft’s grasp. Sexy talk, he could handle. But no one had ever spoken to him like this before - praised him in words like that. He didn’t know what to do with it. He balled the feelings up inside him and tucked them away for later, when he had time to think about it. He gulped, trying to slow his breathing, calm his heart. They waited in silence for a few minutes while Greg’s trembling eased, until he had calmed.

Mycroft’s hand began again slowly, easing up and down his length. Greg’s arousal ramped up almost immediately, as though they hadn’t stopped at all. A whine crawled out of Greg’s chest - then he stopped trying to contain it anymore. If Mycroft wanted him loud, he could be loud. He sobbed as his feet jerked against Mycroft’s grip on his ankles. Not pulling away, but desperate to feel himself held at every point. He just wanted to test the pressure against his ankles, to be reassured as Mycroft’s strong grip held him. 

The hand on his cock didn’t vary its pace. Just slowly smoothed against his skin, eased by the slickness of whatever Mycroft had used. It was indescribably good. At home, Greg never used anything to ease the way - just had a quick jerk before bed or in the shower, but didn’t dawdle over it like this. He wasn’t used to being denied his release. He wanted to come. But he wanted Mycroft to be pleased by it. He groaned again, unashamed, as Mycroft’s beautiful fingers caressed around the head, sliding around the foreskin, touching every part of him. 

By the time they were done, Greg supposed Mycroft would know every part of his body by heart. Good. Greg wanted him to remember. Couldn’t bear the thought that he’d be forgotten in a week. Replaced. 

His orgasm neared again. He pleaded with Mycroft, soft cries of “Please”. It was all he could think to say. 

Mycroft peppered soft little kisses up Greg’s throat, nipping at the skin here and there. It was impossible for Greg to keep still under that kind of combined touch. He squirmed in Mycroft’s lap, feeling the man’s erection pressed against his tailbone. 

Mycroft’s hand grasped his thigh even tighter, and his strokes sped up again, faster than before. Oh God. Greg would never survive this pace. 

“Mycroft,” he gasped urgently. “Mycroft, I can't... “ he writhed, trying to hold on. Trying to be good. “I can’t,” he said again, louder. “Please,” The sound of the lube slicking on him was vulgar, echoing on the tiles as Mycroft brought him nearer. 

Greg wailed, and Mycroft took pity on him. “Yes, so good for me,” He said warmly. “I want to hear you as you come. Give it to me.” His right hand maintained its pace as his left let go of Greg’s hip and eased down behind his balls, smoothing down that stretch of skin. One cool stroke of a smooth fingertip against his entrance slammed the ignition button. 

Greg’s world exploded in an instant, long stripes covering Mycroft’s knuckles as he stroked the last few drops from Greg’s cock. His other hand smoothed from knee to groin, gentling Greg down. 

Mycroft crooned in his ear as he quickly washed off both his hand and Greg’s genitals, careful not to overstimulate him. 

Greg just floated. Mycroft’s hands soothed over him, tracing circles over his tummy and rubbing gently over his arms as he brought them forward again. 

Mycroft crossed them over his chest and held him tight, nuzzling behind his ear, down his neck. 

“I couldn’t be more pleased,” he murmured in Greg’s ear. “All of your sounds are delicious. The way you moved against me. I love seeing you react to me - to my hands.” 

Greg just sighed. His brain was already on overload. The gentle words didn’t hurt so bad now that his mind was buzzing on endorphins. The praise just washed over him like a cloud and sank into his skin. 

“Did you like that?” Mycroft asked. “Did you like holding still for me? Waiting for me?”

Greg nodded, words still somewhat beyond him at the moment. 

“How do you feel now?”

Ugh words. Greg cobbled together some brain cells. “Floaty,” he sighed with a slight smile. 

“Do you think you could stand?” Mycroft asked, “Or would you like to wait a few minutes more?”

Greg scrambled to gather his focus a little more - Mycroft was trying to get around to asking for something. He remembered the Mycroft hadn’t come yet - they weren’t done yet. His pleasure soured just a bit. He didn’t have any business just lying here like a noodle in the afterglow while Mycroft was still half-hard against him. Selfish. 

“I can stand,” he said simply, acquiescing to Mycroft’s unspoken request, whatever it was. Whatever he needed.

Mycroft’s hands guided him forward again, asking him to sit up. Greg scooted up and made room, folding forward like a teddy missing too much stuffing.

The water sloshed around them as Mycroft propped himself out of the bath, and tucked his arms into a terry robe, belting it around himself. He bent over Greg where he was sitting and caught up his lips in a slow, wet kiss. Unhurried. Greg’s heart thumped as Mycroft pulled back. He missed the warmth of the touch almost immediately. 

Mycroft grabbed a second robe and held it up for him. He shook it slightly, inviting Greg to climb out of the tub and join him.

“Come to me.”

Greg went to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this so far, please let me know. You can find me here, or on Tumblr and Twitter @paialovespie
> 
> <3


	6. I've Got You Under My Skin

Gregory stood up in the water and Mycroft just stared at him for a moment. His gaze slid over the man’s legs as he climbed out of the bath, observing as remnants of bubbles slid slowly down his thighs. What a privileged sight that was. The man’s slight wobble gave him pause. Mycroft saw the skin of his arms prickle in the air. Even though the bathroom was warm, the temperature in the room was much cooler than the water had been. He was obviously tired and worn out. It was probably unseemly to feel proud of that, he chastised himself. All the same, his primitive brain wouldn’t be stifled. An undeservedly cocky feeling swelled in his chest. A possessiveness. He had done that. He could do it again if he wanted. Gregory would let him, he was sure. But Gregory deserved better of him, just now.   

 

Mycroft didn’t often feel humbled, but the way Gregory simply acquiesced to his handling, allowing him to fold him into the robe, smooth the fabric over his shoulders, tie his belt for him... Such trust was delicate. And, if he was honest with himself, somewhat overwhelming in a way. But there was a certain sense of inevitability to it - the ease of them together. It threatened to take his breath away. How did one expose oneself so un-selfconsciously like that? Feeling Gregory come apart in his hands had been stunning. To hold the tremble of his limbs, to be the cause and know that the outcome was good, wanted. Appreciated. It was a gift, what Gregory had given him. For all the words he knew, in 15 languages, none were adequate to express his gratitude. 

 

A slight dread hooked behind his belly, a worry that Gregory had somewhat misunderstood his intentions. He was not practiced at talking freely about himself, other than inconsequential deflections. Decades of politics had drubbed any emotional transparency out of him. Being a fat, freckled, redheaded underage prodigy in public school had started the job, and his career had done the rest. But perhaps. Perhaps now, in this moment. He could...show. Like this. In the small things. This had stopped being a casual affair the moment Gregory had dropped to his knees. He had been dismantled. 

 

Gregory’s gaze was hazy, and Mycroft embraced him as the man leaned into his chest, tucking his face under Mycroft’s neck. The way he sighed contentedly against his breastbone was viscerally satisfying, reaching into his depths and soothing a part of him inside that he thought long lost. His broad shoulders filled his arms, warm and heavy. 

 

It was very late now, and Gregory had had a very long day, going by the creases on his trousers and the wrinkle on his tie when he had appeared in the club. The way he’d gripped his glass, angled his neck, had told the story before they had ever spoken a word to one another. Now they’d had drinks and a warm bath, and he’d released twice in Mycroft’s hands. Quite more than enough for any man. Mycroft didn’t want to let him go, but he was driven to care for this man properly. The added incentive of his quiet yielding and appreciation won out. Gregory swayed slightly on his feet, and Mycroft was spurred into action. Only a cad would keep him standing here like this.

 

He stroked down Gregory’s arms and lightly took hold of his hand again. Holding hands was unnecessary - he knew Gregory would follow wherever he led. But... He liked it, the way their palms fit together. The twining of his fingers was revolutionary. It was an indulgence, just this once. Surely he was allowed this one simple pleasure. In all his childhood imaginings, he had never expected to hold someone’s hand in this way - that someone would allow him do so, would welcome it. Handshakes, though similar in some ways, weren’t at all the same, and Sherlock had disdained holding Mycroft’s hand at the tender age of four. Indeed, that Gregory did so without pause or remark was...unprecedented. 

 

He drew out of their embrace slowly, allowing him to readjust on his feet. He permitted himself a small touch to the man’s cheek, drawing a finger quickly over the flushed skin. His caresses had (bafflingly) seemed to settle the man before and he would not withhold comfort from Gregory now, when it was so clearly required. He chose not to think about how many others in Gregory’s life had had leeway to do the same for him, although evidently, no one had done so in quite some time. Best to care for him and put him to bed, now. Let him rest. He’d more than exceeded Mycroft’s expectations from the beginning. 

 

“I’ll leave you for a moment so you can take care of any necessities,” he offered. “You’ll find a spare toothbrush and anything else you might need behind the cabinet door, just there.” He pointed to a mirrored case set into the wall, where all sorts of essentials were kept stocked in case Sherlock showed up unexpectedly. “Please help yourself to anything you find, and then join me in the bedroom when you’re finished.” He let go of Gregory then, missing the warmth of him against his chest immediately. “I’ll be just across the hall,” he reassured, when Gregory’s expression took on a vague, pained pinch around the eyes.

 

Mycroft left him there and headed to his own en suite, cleaning his teeth and pulling on a pair of pyjama pants. He didn’t bother finding a set for Gregory. The DI was a man who most definitely slept in the nude, and Mycroft was wary of complicating things unnecessarily. There was simply too much weight in a choice like that - to be clothed or not to be clothed. Best to keep it simple. Of course, the idea of spending the night together, skin to skin was enticing, even as it was cause for some small amount of disquiet in Mycroft.

 

He was not accustomed to sleeping with others. In fact, he could count the instances on one hand, all of them borne of necessity rather than desire. Sentiment had never before entered the proceedings, and his partners had certainly never entered his home. He’d preferred to keep things simple. He made professional arrangements, took care of things, and parted ways. Cleaner that way. But Gregory was...safe. Proven. Surely his trust wouldn’t be betrayed. Mycroft despised working on instinct alone, but. This could be the start of… He headed off that thought with a firm shake. What nonsense. No sense in wishing on stars. He knew he was constitutionally unsuited to relationships - no one in their right mind would enter into a long-term arrangement with the nightmare that was his life.

 

Mycroft dropped the thought and made a quick trip to the kitchen. He could hear the water still running in the bathroom as he passed down the hallway, but left Gregory to his own devices. He’d come to Mycroft when he was ready. 

 

He retrieved an unopened bottle of water and a packet of paracetamol for his guest which he placed on the opposite bedside table in his bedroom. Pulling back the covers, he hoped very much that Gregory left tomorrow refreshed. That he will have provided him something needed, and gotten some good in return. Let tomorrow worry about tomorrow, he told himself, uncharacteristically. Tonight had been a night of taking chances, and it hadn’t gone awry. Yet. He finished bustling about, plugging Gregory’s phone in with a spare charger, then quickly ensuring the laundry he’d set out earlier had been retrieved by for cleaning by his standby staff. Arranging everything to suit. Taking care of things. 

 

He ruffled a hand through his damp hair. His blasted curls were drying in ringlets across his forehead. Suddenly he felt tired, the weight of the day finally registering. Anthea had evicted him from his office earlier this evening, rearranging his calendar to push all his appointments into next week. She’d more or less ordered him not to show his face until Monday. Of course she didn’t have any such authority, but she’d been known to make his life difficult when he didn’t take proscribed time off when it was heavily suggested. 

 

It was true, he’d been...on edge since the incident at the summit in Kabul. It wasn’t precisely legwork, but it had shaken him nevertheless. So he condescended to make himself scarce for the weekend, and a visit to the Blue Danube had seemed precisely the prescription he needed. And then, like serendipity, Gregory Lestrade had arrived and shown characteristic courage. And Mycroft had been of a mind to indulge. Fortuitous, no doubt. But he had never dreamt...this. In all his wild imaginings at his first sight of Gregory over the piano, tired, handsome,  _ interested _ , this had never emerged as a likely outcome.

 

He could not have predicted such a thing. Gregory had done what he’d though was impossible, and surprised him.

 

“Um.” 

 

Speak of the devil...Mycroft turned as Gregory came to stand in the doorway of his bedroom, seeming unwilling to cross the threshold from the hall. His hands nervously clutched the top of his robe. His eyes didn’t quite meet Mycroft’s gaze. Had he changed his mind? His heart sank with disappointment. Yes, okay. He held back a sigh. 

 

It was to be expected, he supposed. Mycroft would call him a car. It was fine, he reminded himself. Gregory didn’t have to stay. He’d said so - promised - and he was a man of his word, when he could be. And the thought of keeping him here unwillingly was sickening. Gregory had already more than transcended all of Mycroft’s hopes, and indulged him selflessly. He would send him home with care. Perhaps have a breakfast delivered to him in the morning - he had offered, after all. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, if perhaps a little unorthodox. But he worried about leaving him entirely on his own so soon. 

 

He walked over to where Gregory was standing and pulled him close by the hips, placing two small soft kisses on his cheek. One as a thank-you. One for goodbye. “It’s quite alright,” he said quietly, understanding. Reassuring. Gregory hadn’t done anything wrong. “Let me find you something to wear for the trip home. I’m afraid your clothes won’t be returned from cleaning for another hour or two.” At least he could send him off with a memento, he told himself ruefully. All of his shirts would be too long in the arms, and perhaps too narrow in the chest. But. Nevertheless.

 

“I...what?” Gregory gaze snapped to Mycroft’s. Mycroft saw his anxiety visibly intensify in his eyes. His knuckles went white where they were closed tightly in the cloth of his robe, and his shoulders hunched in a little. Such a charismatic man should never seem to shrink so. Mycroft immediately despaired at being the cause of such alarm. “But. You said. I. Um…Oh...” Gregory trailed off, biting his lip. He looked to the floor, trembling almost imperceptibly. 

 

Surely no one’s feet were that interesting. Unless.  _ Improbable _ , he told himself. And yet… A fragile little hope bloomed in Mycroft’s chest. He reached out his hand and tipped up Greg’s chin, waiting for Gregory to meet his gaze before easing their lips together in another kiss, this one warm and comforting. Soft and lengthy - he took his time. He hadn’t meant to cause distress. Certainly, humans were not his area, but he wasn’t wholly hopeless. He could be what was required. Needed. He was determined. He would fix this. Make it better. Do better -  _ be _ better. 

 

“Let’s tuck you into bed, then,” Mycroft announced quietly, with a small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. Warmth bloomed under his ribs. He reached for Gregory’s hands and loosened their grasp, setting them easily to his sides before pulling on the tie that closed the robe so chastely. The sides gaped apart, revealing that broad, beautiful chest he’d been admiring all evening. Even in cheap polyester blends, Gregory had looked virile and handsome in the club tonight. Navy blue suited him tremendously - brought out his lovely hair, his bright smile, that tan skin. He couldn’t help himself. He bussed another kiss high on Gregory’s cheek, just to see him flush a little. Demonstrations of appreciation had the most exquisite effect on the man. It was addictive. He resisted the urge to suck on an earlobe - he’d indulged himself quite enough for one evening, he was sure to outstay his welcome any moment. Reign it in, he told himself.

 

Gregory’s hand reached for him a little, before he visibly tucked it back into his side where Mycroft had placed it. Good grief, this man would be the absolute death of him. How was he expected to maintain any composure when Gregory did things like  _ that _ . The amount of power he was being freely given was heady. It felt delicate - expensive - like a Fabergé egg.

 

“You look quite tired,” he commented, sliding the robe off Gregory’s shoulders and draping it over a hook, leaving him standing naked in the doorway. The man crossing an arm self-consciously over his middle - quite unreasonably, in Mycroft’s opinion. “I’m afraid I’ve worn you out.”

 

“I...yeah, I think ’m about to fall asleep on my feet, to be honest.” Gregory looked strangely guilty about it as though Mycroft had intended some kind of sex marathon for them both. At this age, hardly. And though Mycroft could see the signs of habitual short-sleep on the man, he was determined to ensure a quality rest for tonight. 

 

“In you go,” he said. He placed an entirely unnecessary hand at the small of Greg’s back, guiding him forward. His skin was devilishly warm against his palm. Gregory slipped under the covers and claimed the softer of the two pillows on the near side, placing the other one on the floor. Mycroft drew the covers up over his chest and switched off the light, before climbing in on his own side of the bed. A small nightlight gave only a hint of illumination, for midnight trips to the toilet, but no more than that. Everything was in shadow. Mycroft could hear Gregory breathing softly in the dark, saw a few silver hairs shine where they caught the faint light. 

 

Gregory had curled on his side like a comma, facing him. A hand was endearingly nestled up under his cheek. Mycroft felt a questing toe touch his shin before he reached for Gregory and draped his thigh over Greg’s legs, tucking him closer. Greg’s belly was soft against his. No doubt he wouldn’t go to sleep in such a position, but Mycroft was determined to memorize as much of his skin as possible by morning.  

 

His silver hair was starting to dry a bit wild - it had grown out a bit longer than typical. Evidence that he hadn’t been looking after himself. Distracted. Mycroft petted it down. He remembered the way Greg had responded to touches to his head before - both in the sitting room and again in the bath. He would give him what he needed. He could provide this part - the touching. The reassurance. Such things hardly came naturally to him, but he’d always been a quick study - and Greg seemed content enough with his efforts. Mycroft’s cock thickened out a little with the closeness, but he ignored it in favor of simply experiencing the feel of the man’s skin in the dark.

 

Greg let out a small sound that twisted in Mycroft’s chest. Not quite a whimper, but it had nearly the same effect, crumpling his insides like paper. Surely he would not survive this man. Knowing what he knew now...letting him go tomorrow would be agony. Caring was not an advantage, he knew this. But not every choice must be made with that in mind. (Caring for Sherlock had certainly never been to his benefit, and yet... ) He continued his stroking for a moment, waiting as Greg’s muscles relaxed in his hold. Greg seemed to be waiting for something, resisting sleep. There was a lingering tension he could feel in the other man’s body. Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure what the cause might be. But. He would do his best to set him at ease. Greg had responded positively to his voice earlier. (The warm trusting weight of him in the bath - that memory would be treasured and well-worn, in the future.) Perhaps he could achieve that again. 

 

“Are you quite comfortable?” he asked. He kept his voice low and smooth, hoping to lull his bed partner into an easy sleep.

 

“Mm hmm,” Greg slurred. “Jus’ thinkin’.” 

 

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he said, combing through the strands of hair with his fingers. Surely whatever was keeping him awake at this point was important. Best to let him get it out now. 

 

“Was jus’ thinkin’,” he said again, “‘bout how you never told me why you were in that club t’night.” His voice was low and muzzy with sleep.

 

Mycroft smiled. His clever detective. He inhaled, reveling in the warm vanilla cedar scent that wafted up from Greg’s clean, damp hair. Pressed a kiss to his brow. Tightened his hold and inched him that much closer. Greg let out a happy hum. The man was altogether pleasing to hold. Mycroft hadn’t known before...that it might be like this. Couldn’t have known. Who could have predicted? He couldn’t be blamed for the oversight - an utter lack of precedent had prevented him from foreseeing such an outcome.

“You’re right,” he agreed, before he did his heart any further damage. “Shall I tell you a bedtime story?” he asked with a small laugh in his voice.

 

Greg gave a small pleased wiggle. “Yes, please” he said, oddly polite about it. “”M curious. Want to know - my nosiness is going to keep me up, otherwise.”

 

“Very well, then. Since you asked so nicely.” He gave Greg another slight nuzzle by the hairline, thinking for a moment before beginning. 

 

“As you can imagine, Sherlock and I were...difficult children. My parents struggled to keep us occupied.” He kept his voice low, soothing. The darkness seemed made for whispering - sharing secrets.

 

“Bet Sherlock was a nightmare,” Greg sleepily agreed, “but you too? ‘S hard to believe.” 

 

“I had an active mind that refused to be tamed,” Mycroft explained. “Music was one way of...focusing my attentions, I suppose. My parents hoped it would keep me, and later Sherlock, busy. And they were right. The piano came easily to me - the theory of it anyway. Like all children, the dexterity only came later, with practice. I was determined not to be beaten by my own physical limitations,” he added, with a small, wry smile. 

 

“I practiced excessively. It was...soothing.” He swept a hand down Greg’s spine, memorizing the curve of it. The planes of his shoulder blades should be preserved in paint. Or marble. “I had a lot on my mind - even as a young man.” 

 

“Mmhm. They say music is calming, even to animals,” Greg offered. “Saw a video on YouTube last week where some lady was playing her cello for shelter dogs.” Greg sounded paradoxically more alert now. That really hadn’t been Mycroft’s objective, but he felt an animal pride to have captured the man’s attention.

 

“Just so,” Mycroft agreed, “but what really captured me was the mathematics of it. The patterns, the rhythms and algorithms of compositions. They acted like a complex metronome.” He tapped his fingers against Gregory’s hip, in demonstration. “They made sense to me innately. A way of imposing order and logic on things that were inherently chaotic.”

 

“Yeah, makes sense. ‘Guess most people just listen to pop music, or rock...fluff, y’know...but I s’pose something like classical would get pretty detailed, right?”

 

“You’ve seen Sherlock with his Mind Palace at work, yes?”

 

Greg nodded his head a little. Mycroft’s lips brushed against his brow. Breathed him in. “Yeah, a time or two. Looks bloody weird, poking about in the air like that, but it seems to work alright.” Greg stretched out a daring hand and stroked the back of his fingers over Mycroft’s chest, toying lightly with Mycroft’s admittedly sparse chest hair. Mycroft resisted the urge to preen, and simply pulled him in a little tighter. 

 

“Sherlock created a mind palace, whereas I compose music.” He trailed a thoughtful hand over Greg’s kidneys. “I set thoughts to rhythms and melodies. Patterns I want to remember later. Leitmotifs for people, and situations. In this way, I create a record of details I don’t want to forget.”

 

Greg’s hand stilled its motion, apparently stunned. “That’s incredible,” he said, as though Mycroft had announced he was next in line for the throne. “You’ve composed something for each person you meet?” 

 

“Only the ones whom I wish to remember with clear details,” Mycroft explained. “My natural memory is quite good. The compositions help me preserve precise information, as well as to see patterns and changes over time.”

 

“You’re a world apart,” Greg said, wonderment in his tone. “I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

 

“Yes, I do believe it’s a rather unique technique, but it’s served me well for many years.” He tried to downplay it a little, concerned about sounding like a braggart, now. “I did meet a young lady some years ago, however, with a similar methodology, although hers was an expression of innate synaesthesia, rather than a learned technique like mine.”

 

“‘S incredible,” he said, tipping his head back a little. Mycroft’s heart leapt as Gregory pressed a light kiss to his jaw. “You’re incredible.” Another kiss. The blatant admiration in his tone was...He didn’t have words. To know that he he had the attention of such a wholly  _ good _ man was validating in a way he’d never experienced before. 

 

He couldn’t possibly find the words respond. He threaded his fingers though Gregory’s hair.  _ Softly _ , he reminded himself. Even though he longed to clutch. To grasp and keep. But Gregory wasn’t his to keep. Only to safeguard. For now. He petted the soft strands in his hand, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the scratch of Greg’s stubble on his neck. Greg stroked his fingers slowly down Mycroft’s chest. The simmering arousal under his skin threatened to come back to the forefront, but Mycroft pushed it down again. Not now.

 

“So why’d I see you in that club tonight?” Greg asked, bringing the conversation back around, like the good detective he was, whatever Sherlock had to say on the matter. Sherlock could surely learn a thing or two from this man. He was certainly persistent. Mycroft had been dancing around it, deflecting. But he should have realized the DI would notice. He wasn’t hiding anything, per se. Merely that it was...personal. Private. He’d never told anyone this before. Sherlock knew, but not because Mycroft had said. He was about to bare a part of himself that had been hidden so long, he’d nearly forgotten how to share. He would do his best.

 

“I’m sure you can appreciate that my mind tends to run amok on a regular basis,” Mycroft said. “Jazz has some unique qualities among musical styles - chords and progressions found nowhere else, for the most part. It thrives on impulsive composition within a known framework. When I first discovered jazz music, unlike classical pieces, instead of feeling constrained and organized, I felt free.

 

Gregory trailed a thoughtful finger down Mycroft’s side, but said nothing.

 

“Given a set of musical principles, an educated musician can create music with a group without having much in the way of prior arrangement or practice - improvisation is where it really shines. It is a joyful chaos, where experimentation and deviation are allowed to flow around you. Some may even call it discordant, and find the sound unpleasant, but the underlying structure hasn’t broken any rules. No two songs are ever truly played the same way twice. And yet, we recognize them in endless configurations. Nothing is lost in translation - only added. Transformed.

 

He went on, “I enjoy jazz in particular, not for remembering, but for letting go. For processing thoughts in the moment, and then allowing them to fade. Tonight, I played at the Blue Danube to forget.” 

 

Gregory looked at him, even though he doubtless couldn’t see much in the dimness. Mycroft felt him reign back his questions, the way his breath hitched, and then dissipated a couple of times. Then. Remarkably. Gregory simply settled himself more closely, twining an arm around his waist. Pressed a kiss to his neck. Mycroft paused, beside himself with the patience he was being shown. Letting him share in his own time. He was entirely vulnerable, like this. Naked and exposed, but. So was Mycroft. 

 

They sat in the silence - in the dark - for a bit. It wasn’t awkward, simply...expectant. Not heavy. Just...open. Gregory nestled against him a little, not saying anything, just giving Mycroft time to compose his thoughts. Mycroft felt him breathe in deep, relaxing into the embrace and making small humming noises as Mycroft’s hands travelling over his skin in slow waves. 

 

Mycroft swallowed with some difficulty. His defenses had been breached, although he didn’t experience any immediate need to repair them. He poked at the feeling, examining it like the hole left by a lost tooth. It wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was tender all the same. 

 

“Many years ago,” he began again, his voice rasping a touch, “when I first began the work that I do now - in its infancy then, just an idea for a role that didn’t yet exist in its current iteration. The responsibilities, even at that time, were strenuous. I found myself struggling to process and organize everything I needed to remember.” And  _ oh _ , how he wanted to remember this. A singular, remarkable juncture in the drudgery of his life. 

 

“The sheer quantity of data to be sifted through...it was overwhelming in a way I had not sensed since childhood. The detritus built up in my mind to such an extent that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees, so to speak. I needed time to...to prune. 

 

Mycroft’s skin prickled as Gregory rubbing a thumb a little where it lay on Mycroft’s side.

 

“I have another club I go to, sometimes. The Diogenes. It’s quiet there, so quiet that all you can hear are your own thoughts. An excellent venue for working undisturbed, but also a prime breeding ground for expanding endlessly on theories in one’s brain. It wasn’t - restful to my mind. Rather the opposite, in fact.” Mycroft paused, and resettled his hand downward on Greg’s rump. Not soliciting anything - just touching, enjoying the feel of him. Marveling that he had permission to do so. 

 

“When I go to the Blue Danube, I use the time to refresh. To experience what’s around me without filtering or preserving any of it, and to settle my mind on the nights when my thoughts simply spin uselessly. Allowing sensations and ideas to flow through, without feeling it necessary to evaluate them. Other people might liken the process to a meditation, perhaps.” The explanation felt inadequate. To describe the release he felt during those times. Like giving air to an asthmatic, freedom to an inmate, orgasm to a celibate. It defied definition. 

 

Gregory yawned against his chest. Mycroft felt his body expand and contract in his arms with the hitching breath, and smoothed a hand down his spine as he yawned again.

 

“‘M Sorry,” Gregory said. “Promise ‘m not bored. Jus’ tired,” he explained, slurring, obviously exhausted. Mycroft felt a pang of guilt. His fault.

 

“No need,” he said softly, still petting his back. “I should have let you sleep. That was negligent of me.”

 

Gregory turned away from him, shifting his body around until they were nestled together back to front, like spoons. Mycroft tucked his knees up into the crooks of Gregory’s legs, winding an arm around his chest. Holding him close. Placing little kisses on the back of Gregory’s shoulder, wherever he could reach. Letting him settle, adjust his pillow just so.

 

“Are you tired, too?” Gregory whispered. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft said simply.  He was tired. His spirit was dreadfully, acutely tired. 

 

His heart was just waking up. 


	7. Good Morning, Heartache

Greg’s feet were too hot. He huffed softly, annoyed. And his hand was numb. His fingers felt like plastic where they had been trapped under his jaw. Awareness tricked into his brain in pieces, bit by bit. He snuffled against his pillow - his nose was a tad bit stuffy. And his mouth was dry - no headache, but he should probably drink some water soon. At his age, he knew better, honestly. But most nights at the pub, he was drinking the local lager, not hard liquor, and he’d miscalculated... and then been distracted in the very best of ways. Mycroft in that waistcoat. Hmm. Well that was a pleasant thought to wake up to. 

 

Last night replayed in his mind as he flexed the pins and needles out of his hand. Wasn’t sure how he felt about it just yet. In that time, in that space, it had felt exactly like everything he needed. Like oxygen. But now...the world felt different. What had he been thinking, hitting on a man like Mycroft? His gut sank just a touch. What Mycroft must think of him now, knowing how he’d fallen apart so easily. Not a big, strong copper now, was he? He'd been so exposed. Would he still have his dignity when he walked out the door today? Probably thinks he’s not fit to look after Sherlock anymore. Unfit. The idea festered. 

 

Embarrassment slithered in his soul, warring with the memory of the deep, floaty contentment he’d had, sitting at Mycroft’s feet. The soft touch on his cheek. The sounds Mycroft had made for him, and the solid feel of those thighs bracing underneath his own. The smell of warm skin under his clothes. Being gentled down afterward. Greg mostly resisted the urge to squirm in place, crinkling his toes as the conflicting emotions became difficult to reconcile. He pressed his face into the pillow a little harder. Maybe he could just suffocate himself now. Save everyone the trouble. Die happy.

 

Oh god. He took a quick breath in. Tried to settle himself. He didn’t have regrets, exactly. But...he hoped  _ Mycroft  _ didn’t have regrets either, regret taking Greg home. Hoped he’d been worth it. With that memory of his, he would never live it down, never be able to look the man in the face again. Images flooded his mind, of the awkward meetings they were sure to have six months from now when all this was in the past. Both of them knowing. He knew what Mycroft’s feet looked like. Couldn’t un-know it. What was he going to do? This wasn’t just a ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em” situation, where he could get his fill and leave a bloke behind when he was done. They had enough professional business in common, he couldn’t avoid him forever. His stomach felt a little ill, and he admitted it was not entirely the alcohol's fault.

 

But. The thought of kneeling between Mycroft’s knees came back to him in a rush - a heady sensation. Mycroft had cradled him in his lap, petted his hair...said he was...good. Called him stunning. Said he was pleased. A warm glow fought its way up inside him and he held onto it, clutching to the good feeling and tucking it close. He wanted to go back there - stay there. Greg fought the urge to jiggle his foot as a riot of emotion invaded his body in sick adrenaline trickles. His throat thickened in near despair. Greg wanted to remember this - fold it away small and keep it safe, tight in his chest. Desperate to believe he hadn’t cocked this up. Not yet, anyway.

 

He clutched his pillow a little closer, pressing it firmly to his face as he breathed into it, trying to settle himself. The fabric against his cheek was cool and soft. He nestled into it a little deeper with a quiet yawn and a huff.  _ Christ _ , that pillowcase. The stubble on his chin rasped against it a bit. He stroked across the grain with his fingertips, feeling the embroidered edge rasp a little under his hand. It was probably some expensive eight billion thread count sheet or whatever posh nonsense that people like Mycroft slept in. Only it didn't feel like nonsense at the moment. Just felt nice.  _ Really _ nice. Greg didn’t care how frivolous it was - he felt spoiled. Like a fancy concubine. He resisted a giggle. The slide of it felt glorious on his face where the cool fabric brushed his cheek, grabbing against his stubble. He waggled his toes again - still too hot. 

 

The way the silky sheets slithered decadently against his cock as he stretched his legs out a bit,  _ ooohhhh _ that was nice. Found a cool spot. He moved slowly, so as not to disturb Mycroft’s arm where it lay heavy around his waist. The man was likely still asleep, Greg supposed. It must be pretty early, after all - the room was still dark. 

 

Greg was still tired. He never rested well in strange spaces, even in plush beds as indulgent as this one. Perhaps especially in nice beds. This was a far cry from his own saggy, tough mattress and old cotton sheets left over after the divorce. Everything felt different here. The smells, the sounds, the space, the  _ air _ was different, and every noise kept triggering the subtle alarm in his hindbrain - made it difficult to relax enough for a proper sleep. 

 

Mycroft had called it correctly in the car. Habitual hypervigilance, he'd said. Normally that danger instinct was a good thing, but right now, he wanted to suffocate it with his overly posh pillow and go doze some more until morning. It had been a while since he shared a bed with anyone, and he’d lost the knack for sleeping through the movements and sounds caused by others. Although amazingly, neither of them had shifted around much, still on their sides and pressed back to front.

 

Perhaps he could catnap like this for a bit, until Mycroft got sick of him taking up space and sent him home. The weighty drag of the fabric against his toes felt criminal as he poked a foot out from underneath the covers, rucking up the bedclothes to let a little air underneath. Instant relief. Who knew Mycroft would be such a warm sleeper? The skin of Mycroft’s belly was blazing on his spine where Mycroft was tucked up behind him. He could feel his cock, not quite hard, rucked up against his lower back. Soft breath tickled across his shoulders and tiny snore made him smile. It was a weird kind of cozy, at odds with his whirling brain and restless body. Felt strange to be on the small spoon side of the cuddle. But very nice. 

 

One eye squinted carefully open, looking for a clock or his phone maybe. The room was still mostly dark, except for the small night light in the outlet. Small mercies. Greg suspected the windows were covered by blackout curtains. He saw his phone on the table next to the bed. It was out of reach next to a bottle of water, but his arms weren’t long enough and he was reluctant to move far enough out of the man’s arms to go get it. He could get water any day. Mycroft though...best get his fill now.

 

The water had some fancy label he’d never seen before, probably hand-collected from the dewdrops in the Himalayas or wherever the fuck. He couldn’t see it clearly in the dim light, but no doubt it had some elevated-sounding name that was designed to make you think it contained different H20 than what came out of the tap. Posh people.

 

Thankfully the tablets were a standard brand he recognized, in an individual packet. Still….how to reach it without disturbing his bed partner? He’d gotten the impression that Mycroft didn’t sleep much, either. Or particularly well - that prodigious brain was probably hard to settle down - Mycroft had said as much before. Stay still. Let the man sleep. His quest for water would keep for a little while. 

 

Greg extended his limbs one by one, and slowly arched his spine, reveling in the slide of Mycroft’s belly against his back. It seemed some parts of Mycroft were waking up after all. If he happened to rub his rear against him a bit, encourage him along, well. He couldn’t be blamed. The protective arm around him was delicious - the weight of it, the warmth of it. Greg wanted to turn around in the embrace - see his face. Taste him again. Breathe him in. Be seen. 

 

He felt greedy. A quiet hope unfurled inside him. Mycroft had seemed to expect that Greg would want to stay the night. Brought him water, tucked him in, plugged in his phone, even. Sent his clothes out for cleaning, and practically told him a bedtime story for god’s sake. It was all a bit unprecedented. At least he wouldn’t have to do the walk of shame on the tube home, wearing a rumpled suit and day-old underpants. 

 

Greg had never been good at sleeping in. At just lying there, thinking of nothing. Being inactive was hard - especially in the morning. Even on the weekends he was up with the sun for a run, or just to start breakfast. It had always been a point of contention with Allison through the whole of their marriage. She liked to sleep in, but Greg just couldn’t wait to share his thoughts with her, start planning the day together, maybe a little morning sex. Everything annoyed her when she was sleepy. Stop moving, stop touching, stop talking, be still. Eventually he learned just to get out of bed, but then she complained he didn’t stay for a cuddle. 

 

But for Mycroft, he would try. Do better. For once in your life, just get this one bloody thing right, you idiot, and don’t be a nuisance. 

 

Quit fidgeting. 

 

He firmly closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath in. Held it for a moment, then a long breath out. Again. Again.  _ Again. _ Consciously forced his muscles to relax some of their nervous energy. But it wasn't enough. His anxiety was rising, causing a nervous feedback loop. He was anxious about being restless, and the anxiety made the restlessness worse. Catch-22. Self-sabotage, his therapist would say.

 

Most mornings his alarm rang and he was out of the bed within a minute or two - long habits of a policeman on call. His to-do list started running full-speed through his head. With his body pinned down, his mind wandered away. Laundry, he thought. Dry cleaner. Case notes. Weekly shop. When would he be sent home? Could he stay for breakfast? Don’t forget toothpaste. Was he hungry? His stomach felt a touch tender. Maybe something light. What does a man like Mycroft keep in the refrigerator? Did he do his own shopping? Did he know how to cook? Would Mycroft let Greg make him a little breakfast? What were they going to -- 

 

Mycroft’s arm tightened around his waist, derailing his thought. A huffed breath warmed the back of his neck. Mycroft’s hand slowly flattened on his front and stroked him in one long sweep from navel to chest as he inhaled a stifled yawn and placed a kiss on Greg’s shoulder. Greg gathered Mycroft’s arm closer to him and hugged it, arching backwards into the man’s body. The heat of his skin was incredible. Mycroft rumbled sleepily in his ear. No words, just a formless grumble. If Greg wasn’t sure that he’d be shot for saying so, he’d think it was cute. Mycroft pressed them both closer together, sweeping one of Greg’s legs to tuck back between his own. His belly squirmed, delight at the attention warring with guilt that he’d clearly woken the man several hours ahead of time. Greg noticed with slight dismay that his foot was too hot again. 

 

“Did you sleep well?” Mycroft asked muzzily, nosing at the hairs growing too long at the back of Greg’s neck. It tickled a bit, but he arched his neck to make room, anyway.

 

“Mm hmm,” Greg answered vaguely, although obviously he had woken them both way too early for that to be true. It couldn’t be helped, now.

 

“Hmm.” There was a pause, then, quietly, "I see.” his tone was difficult to parse. 

 

Greg wasn't sure what he saw, but he suddenly felt ashamed of lying. He had only been trying to be polite - guest’s manners - but Mycroft seemed to have another opinion. 

 

"Ah." Mycroft sounded as though he'd reached some kind of conclusion. "Of course." No doubt the man's brain was calculating all kinds of incomprehensible things. His arm loosened from around Greg with a light pat. "Stay here,” he said, turning on a side lamp and easing out of the covers. He exited the room without any fanfare. He hadn’t even bothered to put any clothes on, simply walked out of the room just as though he was dressed to meet the queen. Greg had never met a man so entirely self-possessed. 

 

Greg was...relieved. Mycroft had not seemed upset with him. His stomach dared to surrender some of its tension. 

He propped himself up in the bed slowly, bundling a pillow behind his back to lean against. The cool air on his chest was refreshing and he took a few slow breaths. He reached for the water, but didn’t twist off the cap - just held it in his hand, wondering where Mycroft had gone. He quickly activated his phone and cringed when he saw the time - four o’clock. Much too early. With the cold evidence in front of him, he felt even more ashamed for disrupting them both after only a couple hours. Greg picked at the label on the bottle a little, but didn’t tear it off. He smoothed the corner back with his thumb. 

 

Mycroft returned, hands full, and he set down a tall glass of ice before sitting lightly on the bedside next to Greg’s thigh. Their skin was touching. Greg watched as he took the bottle out of his hand and poured it over the ice, then handed it back along with a seltzer tablet and the pain reliever packet. 

 

Greg popped the tablet in the water, watching it fizz, then obediently downed both the water and pills. The slide of the liquid on his throat was heavenly. He chewed on an ice cube, watching Mycroft sitting in the dim light. The man’s hand cradled his knee, stroking the hairs there, exploring the creases of his leg. Soothing.

 

“It’s early,” Mycroft said quietly. His tone was calm, but Greg’s stomach sank.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Greg said, shamed. “I...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. God, he was such a nuisance.

 

Mycroft’s hand continued its slow sweep over his leg. It was calming. Restful. He didn’t deserve this kindness. Perhaps he could help - make it up to him. At least one of them should get some more sleep. 

 

“C’mere.” Greg scooped up Mycroft’s hand and scooted over to the far side of the bed, lightly tugging him along. Flipped over the pillows to the cool side for Mycroft. 

 

“Shall we try again?” Mycroft offered as he tucked under the sheets and lay down again, extending an inviting arm. Greg eagerly cozied up against him, and Mycroft’s arm curled around his shoulders. 

 

“M’sorry,” Greg said again. His mind was racing, trying to think of something better to say, but his thoughts were all filled with fuzz. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft said. “Don’t apologize. Nothing has been ruined.”

 

More kindness. Greg’s belly clenched. It wasn’t a word most people probably associated with Mycroft, he supposed. How he so easily accommodated him, gave him what he needed - it was a gift. He hadn’t asked. He was so used to his mistakes being logged on paper in triplicate, dredged up during every argument and board meeting afterward. All his reasoning questioned and defended. Never just...brushed away. Like it was nothing. It couldn’t be that easy. His throat was tight. He’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. He bit his lip, instead, worrying it between his teeth as he pressed his head more closely against Mycroft’s chest and breathed. His heart rate was elevated - he could feel it. 

 

He could feel Mycroft’s heartbeat resonate too, when he was settled like this - calm and steady, like a metronome. Smell his body. After sleeping, Mycroft’s natural scent had come through, but Greg wasn’t put off. He liked it. Evidence of Mycroft’s humanity, and the pheromones fed up a primal want inside him. He threaded his fingers through the man’s sparse chest hair. Back and forth, back and forth, feeling the crinkle under his fingertips. Mycroft’s hand reached up and brushed Greg’s cheek, smoothing his skin and ruffling through his hair. A trace over his ear. Greg crumpled a little into his embrace. Whatever neutral boundaries he had been trying to maintain had been thoroughly dissolved like wet tissue paper. His mouth attempted to do a thing before he pressed his lips together a little tighter. Don’t. 

 

This would break him, he thought. And he didn’t care. He could say he’d had this. Just the once. Just his. It didn’t matter if Mycroft never thought about him after. (And what a desperate lie that was, he knew.) It mattered that Mycroft was his - only his - right now. Here, in this moment. It was enough. It would have to be enough. He hadn’t even deserved what he’d gotten. Hadn’t earned a thing. Be grateful. He sucked a tremble of air through his teeth, trying to calm down in the face of imminent, excruciating loss. 

 

His feet were still agitated. He reached out and folded himself closer into Mycroft’s arms, threading their legs together until they were all a tangle and letting the press of Mycroft’s legs still him. Thank god it was dark - Greg turned his face closer to Mycroft’s chest, hiding his expression as he resisted the urge to suck on the skin brushing his lips.

 

“Are you comfortable, now?” Mycroft asked.

 

Greg didn’t have proper words, so he just nodded and tried to unclench his muscles, to hide the growing quiver in his limbs. 

 

Mycroft’s fingers brushed over his ear again, and Greg heard a deep hum in his chest.

 

“There’s no need for distress,” he hushed. “Would you like to sleep some more? Or perhaps talk for a while?”

 

Greg nodded. “Don’t know how to settle, though,” he admitted quietly. “M’all wound up.”

 

“Then I suppose I shall settle you,” Mycroft said. As if it were just that simple.

 

“I...yes, okay,” he said, trying to disguise his wavering voice. Perhaps he could blame it on the early hour. Maybe Mycroft knew a technique or something that would help. He was  _ so  _ tired, but his body was fighting him.

 

Mycroft picked up Greg’s hand and kissed it before unwinding himself from their octopus twist. He pressed Greg backward into the bed and settled his body fully on top of him, in between his legs. Greg gasped as the weight of Mycroft’s core pressed him down into the mattress, compressing him. His body immediately quieted, as though something in his soul had simply... clicked into place. Yes,  _ yes, this. _ Greg let out another trembling breath as Mycroft threaded their hands together and pressed down, caging him in. But Greg didn’t feel trapped. He felt...enclosed. Sheltered. In this position, he couldn’t move much. His hips were pinned and his hands were immobile. He was wrapped up in the man, their faces close together in the gloom. 

 

Greg tipped his chin back, a silent request. Please. A thready sound emerged from his throat and he parted his lips. Mycroft brushed their noses together, just a slight nuzzle before their lips touched - so softly - before Mycroft backed away. It had hardly been a kiss. Come back. Greg maintained his position. More, please. It wasn’t enough. 

 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said. His breath was hot against his lips. Greg flexed his fingers in Mycroft’s strong grip. His legs wrapped around Mycroft’s middle and squeezed, trying to draw him even closer. 

 

“Gregory,” he breathed again. “I find that I’m not quite finished with you.” 

 

A hot fizzle bolted down Greg’s spine as Mycroft growled in the dark, rubbing his thickening cock against Greg. 

 

“I want you again.” The words were whispered against his skin. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.” 

 

A small bite on his earlobe stole his breath. His cock was rapidly filling, rising up quickly. He was panting, unable to answer. Yes. Yes, please more. He flexed his fingers in Mycroft’s grip again. Not to escape. Just to know that he was held. That Mycroft wouldn’t let go. He was secure.

 

Greg’s heart pounded as Mycroft leaned closer and scraped his teeth over his neck. His cock pulsed in answer. His breath had grown loud and desperate.

 

“Tell me, Greg. Would you like to be good for me, once more?”

 

Jesus. His heart was going to explode. Greg nodded frantically, a high whine escaping him.

 

“Say yes,” Mycroft said breathily. “I want to hear you say it.”

 

Greg moaned, low in his throat, overwhelmed. 

 

Mycroft waited a beat and then rose up, moving his body away. 

 

“Yes!” Greg breathed out in near panic. “Yesyesyes, please.” Please don’t go. Come close. Soothe me. Settle me. You said you would.

 

He dug his heels into the man’s back, trying to bring him back down against him. His skin was crying out for closeness. 

 

“There you are,” he said, quietly pleased, although resisting Greg’s pull downward. 

 

He placed Greg’s hands above his head, tightening his grip for a moment before letting go. Greg got the message - stay put. His knuckles curled up against the headboard, and he arched his back, seeking more contact but staying where he’d been placed. His heart had tripled its pace. He wanted another kiss. Mycroft leaned down, as though Greg had asked, and placed another kiss on his lips. Then another. And another. Light, soft, teasing kisses. 

 

Mycroft’s hands roamed over his skin, his hips, his ribs, his chest, his jaw, like he was impatient for him. 

 

Greg curled his hands into fists, desperately trying not to grab Mycroft’s face and steal a  _ real _ kiss. A deep one - not these little teases. He wanted to bite. Be bitten. Wanted  _ proof _ . A pinch on his nipple made him squirm and arch his back, trying to pull back and push forward into the touch at the same time. 

 

“Where shall I touch you next?” Mycroft murmured. “You like this, don’t you?”

 

Greg gasped as he pinched again, harder, worrying it between his fingers until it ached. Greg’s cock throbbed in sympathy. He was fully hard now, and desperate to be touched. But he kept his hands away - he knew by now that Mycroft preferred him to wait. He could wait. He could be good. 

 

Mycroft bent his head down for another kiss, a real one, stretching Greg’s jaw, then dropped small kisses down his neck, along his collarbone, and then...Greg cried out as Mycroft’s lips wrapped around his nipple and  _ pulled _ . Oh god. Help. His thighs spasmed around Mycroft’s waist as his senses were overwhelmed. He felt raw, as though his chest had been cracked open and diagrammed. His voice cracked as Mycroft bit down and tugged. Greg arched his body into Mycroft’s again, gaining a little friction on the crown of his cock as he rocked up and back. His body felt like an expensive race car, and his heart was hurtling. He would come, just like this, if he wasn’t careful. His thighs trembled as he stilled himself. Mycroft bit down again, tormenting it between his teeth and tugging in hot pulls of his lips. 

 

Greg wanted to put his mouth on Mycroft’s cock more than anything. Wanted to suck him,  _ taste _ him. 

 

“ _ Oh _ ,the sounds you make.” Mycroft’s voice was so soft against his skin, Greg felt the words in vibrations, more than he heard them properly. He was panting too loudly. “I love how you respond to me.” Mycroft’s hands travelled slowly from his armpits to the apex of his thigh. Normally Greg was ticklish, but right now his skin was primed. Every touch was feeding his arousal. 

 

“Your face tells me everything you’re thinking, the timbre of your voice. The way your thighs shake around me.” He gripped a thigh and squeezed, his long fingers wrapping around the outside, and digging into the flesh a little.

 

He kissed Greg’s nipple again. It felt hot and throbbing like the rest of him, pulsing a bit from the attention. 

 

“You are so good for me. I shall…” He paused, his face making a strange sideways movement Greg didn’t know how to interpret. “I shall never tire of the way you give yourself to me. The way you say yes to me.” His hands roamed Greg’s body possessively, scratching lightly on his lower belly. Grasping firmly at his hips before letting go and rubbing backwards up his torso from belly button to armpit. Greg broke out in chills for a moment, and he closed his eyes, trying to disguise the tears that were gathering. He gulped in a breath and let it slowly out his nose. 

 

“Gregory, please.” Mycroft’s voice was soft, cracking gently. His hand curled around Greg’s cock, but didn’t move. It was agony. He twitched in Mycroft’s grip.

 

Greg opened his eyes again, at the touch. Mycroft’s dark gaze was searing.

 

“Watch me,” He said. “I want to see what I do to you.” He stroked slowly from root to tip, then said, “I want  _ you _ to see what I do to you. What you do to me.” He bent down and put his mouth on Greg’s chest, higher up this time, biting the skin, leaving a mark.

 

Greg’s fingers scrabbled against the bed frame as he squirmed again. “Mycroft,” he pleaded, nearly bridging off the bed. The man had created a circle of sensation, from nipple to cock, one feeding the other as he bit down and soothed with his tongue, his hand twisting  _ just right _ round his length. It was heaven. It was excruciating. He was going to fly out of his skin.

 

“Gregory, I want to see you,” Mycroft said, lifting his head. “I want to hear you. You’ll give me that, won’t you?”

 

“Oh, Mycroft,” Greg breathed. “Yes. Yes, please. Anything you want. Anything I have.” 

 

“Just this,” Mycroft said. “I want just this, only this. You’re being so good for me.”

 

The praise soaked under his skin and lit him on fire. His self control utterly failed and he came, trembling and crying out, holding nothing back. His ears were ringing, and he felt Mycroft’s body stiffen awkwardly where he was cradled between Greg’s legs. 

 

The ringing continued as Greg’s breath returned, and then he realized. His phone. His heart thudded as he recognized the “work” ringtone. 

 

Mycroft reached over and quickly handed him his phone before extracting himself from Greg’s embrace, still hard and flushed with arousal. Oh god. Shit shit  _ shit _ . He was the  _ worst _ . Twice now, he’d left his partner wanting, while he sat there like a stupid, selfish lump. He took the phone dumbly.

 

No. Oh god no. Not now. He placed a hand over his mouth, his elation translating slowly into nausea. He was supposed to be off this weekend. Only a real emergency on an ongoing case would make them ring him at - he checked his display - 4:18 AM on a Saturday.

 

Mycroft slipped off the bed quickly and disappeared into his ensuite, and Greg’s heart dropped while the phone kept ringing. It stopped, transferring over to voicemail. 

 

His phone buzzed, indicating a message had been left. His mind was still spinning from the high of his orgasm, his body tingling from a mixture of release and green adrenaline, and mortifying guilt for having treated his partner so shamefully. Twice. He opened his phone and touched the voicemail icon, but his phone started ringing again before he could listen to it. Sally this time. He shook himself and answered. 

 

“Boss, sorry for the wakeup call. I know it’s early.” Her voice was tired, too, but the tone was urgent. “They found the uncle, dead in an alleyway - still waiting on an official ID, but they matched against the ID in his wallet. Molly sent it over to the evidence team for processing. But now the girl’s sister has gone missing, too. She disappeared this evening out of her bed, and the parents called about an hour ago. You’ll want to come in for this - we need all hands.”

 

Greg’s heart pitched to the side. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there, hold the scene for me, and get Dobson’s team on the missing sister’s case - She’s the best we’ve got and we have reason to believe she’s in trouble. Hand over any preliminary locations we know about, and send out the alerts.”

 

“I’ll take care of it. See you soon,” Sally said, and the phone went silent. 

 

Greg thumped his head back against the wall.

 

_ Shit _ . 

 


	8. When It Rains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter contains a brief content warning for child endangerment.

It had only been sprinkling a little when Greg made it to the crime scene, but now it was absolutely pissing down rain. It had already wet through his scarf, trickling in cold trails under his coat collar and dampening his shirt. He swiped another trail from his temple and tried to squash himself a little further under the awning in the doorway leading out to the alley, but the narrow overhang wasn’t much good. The water still trickled down his scalp. Bit pointless now, but in his fatigue, the human urge to protect itself was smudging through his usual common sense.

Forensics had sped up their processing once the downpour started, laying tarpaulin down to preserve the evidence until it could be documented and photographed. Trying to catch every detail they could about the killer before the water washed it away.

Greg swiped the moisture from his nose. His surroundings were all a far cry from how his morning had started, certainly. Then, he was too warm. Now he was freezing in his shoes, which had soaked through to his socks. In his rush to get on scene, he hadn’t gone home to get his boots, and his spare pair was at the office. No one could seem to find a spare slicker jacket. He trembled a bit from the cold - it wouldn’t be so bad if that wind would quit knocking about, making everything colder and driving the rain in sheets. Even the forensic cameras were getting a bit damp, despite being wrapped in plastic.

He swept his physical misery aside and focused on directing his teams, making sure nothing was missed. He talked to the coroner on site, verifying it was a homicide although that was fairly evident by the giant hole in the front of the dead man’s face. Jackson Ford, 42, Caucasian, auto mechanic. Went missing at the same time as little Sophie. Assumed to be the girl’s killer but now? The evidence was opening up other avenues of possibility. Execution style, through the back of the head.

Sophie’s little sister Beth was still missing, but he had a team knocking up the surrounding neighborhood, asking if anyone had seen anything. She was only six, and in danger of ending up dead too. A second team - Dobson’s best - were canvassing the parents’ neighbors, spreading the word and asking around for sightings, although they hadn’t been able to tell much the first time. Sophie and Jackson had disappeared in the night, when the neighbors were sleeping. No disturbances noted. A press release had already been distributed to the papers, and on the radio and social media. Hopefully someone had seen Beth and remembered her face.

The phones were ringing, but nothing concrete so far. If only he hadn’t gone home, he might have gotten to work a little faster. What else had he missed while he had been fooling around with Mycroft?

It all seemed a bit dreamlike and unreal now. That soft sweeping warmth and fragile vulnerability leagues away from the Greg he was now. In charge, directing teams, executing plans. No room for softness, here. Although the dreamlike haze might be a result of his chronic sleeplessness at this point. He surely wasn’t at his best anymore. Even the liter of coffee Sally’d pushed into his hands when he arrived couldn’t prop him up much longer. What a mess he was. But he was dedicated to his team - making sure they had what they needed to be at their best. Supporting them and pulling strings so they could close this case and find Beth. He couldn’t leave them now. When Greg made DI, his predecessor had said something that struck him to the core. Never ask someone to do something you’re not willing to do yourself. Leadership starts from the front. And he’d never forgotten.

He shored up his “work” face - every cop got one after their first few real cases. The healthiest cops learned how to put work behind them when they left for the day. But in Greg’s experience, the best detectives were ones who couldn’t do that...couldn’t let go until the job was done. It seemed a no-win, but since Greg’s home life was more or less nonexistent now, work always took precedence. There was always a sacrifice, one way or another. Long years of practice bore him up and kept him going now, upright and forward. Long habits let him put on a face he didn’t feel. But he owed it to the family. A daughter dead. Another daughter missing. Sherlock would never agree to take this case - there was nothing extraordinary about it, but god was he tempted to ask anyway.

Nope. This one would be won by good old-fashioned police work by dedicated officers who put in the time, and if he failed, he’d know exactly who to blame. He sighed and penciled in a mental note to schedule a supplementary appointment with his therapist. Between this case, and yesterday with Mycroft, it would be good to check in. Get some support.

The sky was growing dark again by the time the call came through. When he called everyone together for the update, the air on the scene electrified - everyone perked up and got moving. Sightings of a woman with a girl down by the pier - a disturbance call. Normally that kind of report would be distributed to a different team, but they’d been circulating photos of the girl all day, hoping to find her, and the description of the girl’s distinctive red hair was a match. The caller had told the dispatch she was crying, and barefoot, struggling with an adult woman - all out of place in the rain down by an industrial district.

Greg quickly delegated the murder scene to DS Park and jumped in his car. Sally barely made it into the passenger seat before he pulled away. He blasted the siren, driving like his life depended on it. Hers might. They pulled on site just behind two other panda cars. As they arrived, Greg saw the woman and Beth by the water. Beth was struggling to get away, tugging at the tight hold on her arm, kicking and screaming. When she saw the vehicles pull in, the woman immediately panicked and ran, shoving the girl off the pier into the black water below. The girl sank like a stone, her heavy coat pulling her down. She let out a sharp cry that was cut short as the water closed over her head. Greg’s heart stopped and the air around him froze.

“After her!” He shouted at Sergeant Kincaid, gesturing wildly in the direction the suspect had run as he bolted toward the pier, ripped off his coat and scarf, kicked off his shoes and dove in after her.

The water was freezing, and the temperature shock felt like a slap to the face as he dove down. His hands groped around in the dim water, his chest beginning to cramp for oxygen as the seconds pounded by in his ears. Keep going. Don’t give up. She’s down there.

Finally, his searching hands brushed soft strands in the water. He grasped it, pulling it close as he realized with a jolt of adrenaline that he’d caught a handful of her hair. He dragged her closer, clutched her round the chest, and kicked frantically upwards with all his strength, praying it wasn’t too late. Desperate to break the surface.

Greg’s face broke through and he sucked in a heaving breath, going back under almost immediately with the combined weight of the girl and his own sodden clothing. His head ducked again and again as he attempted to lift her limp body into the arms of his team above on the pier. Finally, they grasped her, and hauled her up the side, laying her out for immediate response. They began chest compressions as Donovan grabbed his hand and pulled him up over the side. His muscles trembled, weak from the cold water and the struggle for air. The wind was still howling and whatever warmth the icy water had left in his body was immediately sapped by the wind, still pushing strong. He shivered, and Donovan wrapped him in a shock blanket as they waited for the emergency services to arrive. He shoved it off him and flopped over to watch the girl vomit up water and heave in a crying, trembling breath.

Greg choked out a silent sob before composing himself. At least now that he was soaked to the bone, no one would notice if a few tears were hiding among the water dripping from his hair. No one would know, although even if he had been caught out, no one would blame him either. His team had all seen the worst of each other by now, and no one had taken the piss out of young Robinson for losing his breakfast this morning at the sight of the body. He didn’t stand for bullying of that kind. A little teasing and back-slapping later at the pub? Fine. Having a bit of teasing a few days after your first sick up on-scene was practically tradition. They’d all done it. But kicking a man when he’s already down and a case going on? No.

A valiant cry came through on the radio hanging from Donovan’s belt. Greg’s had been drowned in the water. Sergeant Kincaid had caught the culprit. Had her in cuffs and was frog-marching her back to the cars. Greg shoved off the emergency blanket Donovan kept replacing round his shoulders. After three or four attempts, Donovan replaced it with his still-damp overcoat. At least it cut down on the wind for now. He wanted them to focus on the girl.

Donovan made arrangements with child services to interview the girl tomorrow as she was bundled off to the nearest hospital. The EMTs insisted Greg hang about for a minute while they checked him over. God, he was dripping on everything. After the fourth attempt to wobble away, he was threatened with a sedative and he condescended to stay put for a few minutes. He might be stuck there with that bloke poking at him, but this was still his scene. His legs dangled out the back of the ambulance as he sat himself on the floor of the truck, waiting to be released. His ears buzzed as he sat there, staring at nothing in particular.

Distantly, he heard Donovan make the call to Ms. Clarke, telling her to meet Beth at the hospital. She arranged to station a uniform outside their residence until the killer and/or abductor was caught - they had no way of knowing how this woman was connected right now, and the boyfriend’s killer might still be on the loose. They’d been through enough, and may still be in danger until they could talk to the girl and get more details.

For today? The immediate work was done. Forensics was still processing evidence, and statements had been gathered from all the neighbors they could track down. His team was soggy, tired, and footsore after pulling a double shift. They’d done well - made him proud. Time to send them home and come back fresh the next day. First shout at the pub was on him, next time.

His pocket rang out. His phone. Thank god it had been in his coat and not in his trouser pocket. Greg fumbled it out with clumsy, cold fingers on the third ring and noted blearily that the battery was almost dead. He answered even though the caller ID indicated it was from a restricted number. Only one person called him from a number like that.

“Hullo,”

“Ah. Detective Inspector.”

The voice in his ear had a soothing tone, even as it made his bones ache. And there it was. If he wasn’t already feeling mostly dead, that would have done the job nicely. That blasted title. Well he knew where this conversation was going now. He picked at the smooth plastic button on his coat, resisting the urge to tear it off in cranky disappointment. Knowing it and coming face to...ear…with the evidence were two different things. He was sure it was all a long shot, getting a chance to be, well, closer, he supposed.

In spite of himself, he had hoped. The whole affair had been so sudden, so unexpected. And he was damned grateful it had happened. But hearing Mycroft use his official title like that...it was a clear line being drawn. At the moment, the whole episode felt like some fevered dream he’d conjured. His arm felt wooden as he held the phone to his ear, still trembling from the cold.

“Mr Holmes,” he answered back with an even tone he didn’t feel. If Mycroft felt more comfortable with the distance of titles, well. Talking over a phone had its advantages, at least. This way, Mycroft couldn’t see the wretched disappointment on his face. His body was shaking with fatigue and cold, but his voice didn’t show it. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. His fingers ached where they were clutched around the phone.

“I…” There was an uncharacteristic pause. “My apologies. Gregory.”

“It’s okay,” Greg reassured him absently, although he wasn’t entirely sure what was okay. Absolutely nothing was okay in this moment. Not a single thing, except that no one had died tonight. That was a pretty low bar. His stomach turned a little, but he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or from swallowing the vile water from the channel.

“I...that is...if you’re not terribly tied up just now...”

Greg had never heard the man stumble quite like that before. What on earth could be such bad news? He’d never had compunctions about asking for things in the past - certainly not last night. If he didn’t want to see Greg again, it wasn’t the end of the world. (It wasn’t, he told himself firmly.)

“Is Sherlock okay?” he guessed. “Only, I’m just now wrapping up a case, and I’m dead on my feet.” Greg should win a BAFTA for his composure, he thought. “All my resources are tapped - your people might be quicker to get to him at this point if there’s trouble.” His whole team was beat, and his budget had no more room for overtime anyway.

“No, no, not at all. I’m afraid I’m botching this all quite terribly,” Mycroft said hesitantly.

Hesitant. A small thought niggled at Greg. What on earth would make a powerful man like Mycroft hesitate? He tapped a finger on his knee. His brain was sluggish, but he was sure there was...something.

“Mycroft, whatever it is, please ask.” Impatience crept into his tone. If Mycroft was going to cut ties with him, well. He wasn’t going to wait for the hammer to fall. He hadn’t the energy to beat around the bush anymore. “Listen. I’ve been awake for the better part of three days, I’m wet, tired, starving, and I want to go home and sleep for a year.” Enough was enough. If he was going to be re-stationed in Alaska, then better to get it over with now.

He just couldn’t care. All he wanted was to go home and enjoy a steaming shower, a hot drink, a throat lozenge for the cough that was becoming suspicious, (don’t forget to get your jabs tomorrow, he reminded himself - who knew what was in that water…) and collapse into his bed for a day. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d get a takeaway delivered before he fell asleep.

“Oh...I’d hoped…well no matter.” Mycroft did a verbal about-face. “I can see I’ve picked a bad time. I hope the rest of your case goes smoothly, Gregory.” All posh tones and bluster, now.

Greg thought quickly, stalling him before Mycroft hung up. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not what you meant to say?” He pressed. Something wasn’t adding up. He nibbled the side of his thumbnail before the lingering acrid taste of river water made him scowl and spit it out again. He tucked his knees up to his chest and leaned back against the side of the ambulance.

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “I did call for a purpose. I had hoped that I might...That you might-” Greg fancied that he heard a swift breath over the line, “-allow me to take you to dinner, in light of the fact that I never did deliver on the promise of breakfast. The time for a morning meal has well passed by now, but I can see that you’re quite busy and a chance of dining together shall likely have to wait.” A pause. “Perhaps another time,” he finished quietly. It wasn’t quite a question, but Greg could read between the lines.

“I…” Greg paused, wrapping his other arm around his middle as he tucked up a little closer against the wall of the ambulance. He desperately wanted to lie down. Clean his teeth. Eat something. Be warm. (Wash, he thought, desperately shoving away the sense-memory of bubbles and vanilla). He’d been surviving on snack bars and bad coffee all day, and his body had nearly hit its limits. The adrenaline leaving his system was increasing his trembles as the minutes passed. Christ, he wanted a cigarette. But more than any of those things, he was struck very suddenly with the excruciating bone-deep hunger to be held. His lower lip trembled just a touch before he schooled it back into order.

“Perhaps...breakfast tomorrow?” Mycroft had never sounded so tentative. Tender.

Greg’s chest squeezed softly.

“Mycroft,” he said, fiddling with his shirt tails, which had come un-tucked. He wasn’t sure how to phrase it. He was no good at that - at reaching out. At trusting. At asking. The sense of needing filled him with shame. But his walls had crumbled. His pride had been trampled under the weight of, well. Everything. “Can I…” he began. Trying.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was soft in his ear. “You must know by now that you can request anything.”

Greg closed his eyes tightly and inhaled, clutching his phone tighter. Pressing it closer to his cheek.

“I just.” He felt so embarrassed. “Would you like to come to mine?” he blurted. “Just for a bit? I know it’s late, and my flat is probably a tip, and I’ve got no food in, and I might fall asleep on you. God this is sounding worse by the minute,” he rambled, “but if any of that sounds tolerable at all, then. Then.” He took a breath. “Please come over.”

“Would it ease things if I supplied dinner?”

Mycroft made it sound so easy. As though Greg hadn’t just requested something horrifically inconvenient and not at all romantic or sexy. As though he had come over a hundred times already, and this was just one more.

“If you come bringing food, you’ll never be rid of me. ‘M like a stray dog, that way,” he joked uncomfortably. His mouth rambled before his brain gave permission. God, why didn’t he just carve a big G + M inside a big heart on the nearest tree? Any hope of playing it casual had just been jettisoned out the airlock.

“Then dinner it shall be. Leave it to me.” And that was that.

Greg held the phone to his ear for a few more moments after Mycroft rang off. After a bit of deliberation, he shook off the blanket and used the last of his phone battery to call for a taxi. He was in no condition to drive, and the idea of trudging to the tube was just. Too much to fathom. His socks had been damp a good part of the day, rubbing a blister into his heel even before his swim. He took them off and tucked them into his coat pocket, stuffing his bare feet into his shoes before handing the dregs of the duties off to Sally and telling everyone, “Good work, now go the fuck home.”

The cab ride was a blur and the next thing he knew, he was staring blankly at his house keys. He couldn’t remember any part of the trip until he’d paid the driver with a few soggy bills. His wallet had taken the dip with him, in his back pocket. He unlocked his door with all of his focus, (fumbling like a drunk, he thought) and stumbled inside, prying off his shoes in the doorway and hanging his coat on the hook near the heater to dry. Every part of him felt wretched and dying.

He shuffled into the bathroom, shedding his clothing with a wet slap against the tile. The scalding shower was a godsend and after he was done scrubbing himself down, he stood under the water until his limbs stopped trembling and the water started to run cool. The mirror was unkind as he scoured the river out of his teeth. His face looked haggard and old; a high flush spreading over his cheeks only highlighted the pallor of his skin.

Carefully, he picked up his clothing from the floor and draped the borrowed shirt and tie Mycroft had lent him this morning over a hanger to drip. Hopefully it was salvageable. He would get them dry cleaned and returned, but guilt over abusing something borrowed nagged at him through his exhaustion. It was no way to treat someone else’s things, he knew.

Mycroft’s warning about the fit had been correct when he handed his own shirt over this morning to substitute for Greg’s which hadn’t come back from the dry cleaner yet - a little tight in the chest, a little long in the sleeve. But he’d been in a suit jacket all day and no one had noticed. Thank goodness there were no holes in it from all the scuffle, but it still smelled of dingy water, cigarettes (not his - he was making a strong go of quitting this time), traffic, and sweat.

His fingers lingered over the delicate powder blue buttons for a moment, before smoothing his hands down the front, trying fruitlessly to un-wrinkle it before giving it up as a hopeless job. Perhaps Mycroft would let Greg do up his buttons one day. Arrange his tie for him. He would like that. He shook himself out of his daydreaming. Collecting rubbish, his nan would say, and popped the rest of the clothes in the hamper.

Greg stabilized himself on the wall as he walked back to the kitchen to make tea - he still felt a bit chilled inside. He had no herbal tea in, just the usual builder’s blend, but he was sure that no caffeine on the planet would keep him awake for long at this point. What on earth had he been thinking, inviting Mycroft over in this state? He pulled down his Arsenal mug from the cupboard, then filled the kettle and turned it on. He should have rescheduled for tomorrow. Had brunch. Or dinner. Given himself a chance to clean up - collect his pieces and put them back into a human shape.

But his skin was sobbing for contact - at this point, he’d hug a cactus if it held still long enough. The nails on his fingers had been chewed until they’d bled, and he’d destroyed more than one writing utensil today with his teeth. Greg’s arms had wrapped themselves around his torso, hands tucked up under his armpits in an unconscious effort at self-comfort while the water boiled. He wanted to be selfish, and it was either this or chain smoking, and he was already months into quitting. It would be suicide to begin again.

A knock on the door startled him. Lord, he was dozing off on his feet, standing around in only a towel. Running behind. It was too late to get dressed now - he didn’t want to leave the man waiting on the step while he rummaged for trousers. No help for it now - but at least Mycroft had been warned Greg was a disaster. And it’s not like he hadn’t been seen naked already. Thankfully his place wasn’t as grubby as he worried it might be. A couple dishes in the sink, and a few stray socks here and there, but nothing too embarrassing.

As Greg peered through the peephole, the fish-eye lens distorted Mycroft’s face. He opened the door, securing the front of the towel with one hand so it didn’t slip away. Mycroft came through, holding a few bags in his hands, looking Greg up and down. If his gaze lingered a little longer on his chest, well, Greg didn’t mind, although he was altogether too fatigued to act on it. He waved Mycroft through to the kitchen nook, where he could put down the takeaway on the island.

Greg stood there dumbly, watching as Mycroft set aside the food, took a swift look around the kitchen and, without error, pulled down two plates and got out the silverware. Greg said nothing - simply observed. Seeing Mycroft in his flat had a rather surreal quality to it that wasn’t entirely due to his sleep deprivation, he realized.

Mycroft got the kettle as it clicked off, and poured the water into Greg’s mug. He pulled the teabag out too early, for a weaker brew before adding a healthy dose of milk and sugar. Definitely not how Greg usually took a cuppa, but he supposed a sweeter cup would be good for him just now, to stave off the downstream effects of adrenaline leaving his body.  
Mycroft was dressed down today - no beautiful waistcoat this time. Just a sport jacket, which he’d taken off and laid over the back of a chair, and a simple button down shirt. Short of seeing him entirely naked, this was the most relaxed Greg had ever witnessed him. Mycroft moved through Greg’s kitchen as though he’d been there a hundred times - as though he belonged in this space. He had never before imagined a scenario where Mycroft Holmes would be in his home. In his shirtsleeves. Eating. If this was a hallucination, it was the nicest thing his brain could have provided. He wasn’t complaining.

The food smelled amazing. Chicken tikka and some buttery naan. He spied some pakora as well, as Mycroft plated the food, and the sight of saffron rice made his mouth water. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in ages, but he was hard pressed to decide right now which was more urgent - the need for food, or the need for sleep. If Mycroft hadn’t offered to bring something to eat, Greg had a strong suspicion he would have headed straight to bed, burrowed his head under the pillow, and not come up for air (or a real meal) until Monday.

He swayed on his feet, and Mycroft placed a steadying hand on his side. Almost like they were dancing, he thought dazedly. When Mycroft’s warm palm curled over the skin of Greg’s waist, he realized very suddenly that he was still nearly naked and had spent the past five minutes standing there in just a towel, staring at the man. He flushed, but Mycroft didn’t seem fazed. His palm swept up and down his side once or twice.

“Would you like to get comfortable before you eat?” It was a gentle suggestion, and Greg took it, nodding at Mycroft before wandering back to his bedroom. He pulled on some track pants and a soft Ramones tee so old that it had been laundered nearly past recognition. When he returned, Mycroft had plated everything and set a place for them at his breakfast bar in lieu of a table, since this flat didn’t have a dining room. He’d never needed one before - Mycroft was Greg’s first guest since moving in 2 years ago.

They ate quietly together, but it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. Greg was too tired for conversation, and Mycroft didn’t demand it of him. If Greg made sure their ankles touched under the table, as they sat together side-by-side...well. He couldn’t be blamed. The food was good. He recognized his local delivery place and decided not to ask how Mycroft knew his regular order. His comfort food order. He leaned over a bit until his shoulder was touching Mycroft’s. Just pressing together. His belly was full. He was warm. He was so, so tired. A yawn distorted his face, but he didn’t move until Mycroft shifted next to him.

“Shall I escort you to bed? Or would you prefer to relax on the couch instead?”

Greg didn’t have the energy to be coy about it. “Bed, please. Or I’ll fall asleep sitting up.”

“I imagine that wouldn’t do your back any favors,” Mycroft said, easing his chair backward and gathering the plates and things. Greg stared at him, both bemused and horrified as Mycroft rolled up his sleeves and washed and dried both plates and forks and put them away again. He just sat there, locked in a helpless daze until Mycroft swept a cool hand over the back of his neck and squeezed a gentle massage into his shoulder. Greg groaned like he was dying. Oh god, more of that, please. The kneading of fingers in that tight spot under his skull was transcendent - the warm touch, itself, acting as a balm to his jambly nervous system.

“If you’re trying to get me to move, that’s the wrong way to go about it,” he advised, tipping his head forward. “Keep doing that, and I’ll sit here forever.”

“And what if I offer you more of that once I’ve tucked you into bed,” Mycroft parried, slyly. Clearly he had vast experience with hostage negotiation, the wily devil. Greg folded immediately, sliding back his chair.

“Suppose it’s not cheating if I tell you the magic words,” he grumbled insincerely as he led Mycroft to his room. Greg suffered a moment’s embarrassment at Mycroft seeing his unmade bed and messy dresser top, then decided he’d worry about it in the morning. He shed his clothes to the floor and crawled under the covers, tucking up under the duvet. Mycroft stood in front of him, unbuttoning his own shirt and trousers without either ceremony or haste. Greg would never get over the way Mycroft wielded clothes. In his case, clothes didn’t make the man. The man made the clothes. Everything got hung up on a free hanger in the wardrobe and then Mycroft approached the bed, sliding into the other side as though he did it every day and wrapping his limbs around Greg.

Greg breathed out hard. His skin cried out in relief and his feet flexed as his leg muscles trembled and then relaxed in a Pavlovian way. He was warm. His pillow was perfect. The covers were tucked under his chin just right. If he had crafted a scenario custom to his deepest wishes, he never would have thought to ask for this, here. Just being held, cradled in someone’s arms in the dark as he slept. But it carried a looming weight of inevitability somehow, as though he was witnessing a turning point. That this was a memorable moment for all that it was wholly mundane. It didn’t feel mundane, though, did it? It felt revolutionary. Nothing about Mycroft was ordinary in the way you’d expect.

This knowledge - it felt like a paradigm shift. Now that he knew, he could never go back. Like Adam and Eve after the apple in the garden of Eden. He couldn’t return to how it was before. The burden of his daily life weighed heavy on him in contrast - ages of being self-sufficient. Being the provider, the point man. Directing, leading, taking charge. His emancipated 16-year-old self never would have imagined he could have this - this giving. At work he could still be DI Lestrade. But here, wrapped up in Mycroft’s arms - he could be Greg. Have things he wanted. Be cared for.

Being curled up together like this felt familiar, but different from last night. (Had it really only been one day ago?) There was a subtle animal power in having Mycroft in his space. His territory. Their homes couldn’t be more different, but the two of them - they were the same, only there was an extra thread of security here. On his own ground. Greg’s body knew the feel of his bed, the sounds of his space, the dimensions around him. It was grounding in a way that Mycroft’s room had not been.

Greg snuggled backward into Mycroft’s embrace a bit, getting more comfortable, if that was possible. His limbs felt like jelly, and his brain was already two steps ahead of him, sliding sideways into sleep when he wasn’t paying attention. He played a little with the fingers on Mycroft’s hand, admiring their length. Rubbing his cheek against the long fingertips. Mycroft remained passive, letting Greg explore and touch as he wished, only huffing a silent laugh when Greg kissed a fingertip, then nibbled a bit. Greg idly slid his lips round the fingertip, enjoying the way their skin pressed together. He liked feeling his fingerprints on the sensitive skin there, under his bottom lip, on the tender inside of his lip. He liked the way the skin dragged against his teeth, the slide of the cleanly trimmed fingernail on his tongue.

Mycroft held him a bit tighter and rucked his hips up against him, an involuntary hitch. Greg smiled a bit, pleased that he was able to have such an effect, even while half-asleep.

“Gregory,” Mycroft admonished in a low tone. His hand slid out of Greg’s grip gently and turned his jaw close enough for a kiss on the cheek. “Were I man with fewer scruples, I might take you up on your very kind and attractive offer. Fortunately for you, somnophilia has never interested me.”

Greg let out what was definitely not a giggle. He’d swear it in court. He took Mycroft’s hand back and pressed it flat to his chest, over his heart. He could behave himself. Promise. He patted the hand. Fuzzy gray fog was sliding back around the corners of his brain, but an imperative thought kept repeating, over and over, until it made its way out his mouth, into the space between them.

“You’ll stay?” he asked. The thought of waking up to an empty bed was gutting. He might be hallucinating all this now, but in the morning...then he could confirm whether his subconscious was playing tricks on him, or if Mycroft Holmes had really come over to spend time in his dingy flat, feed him dinner (wash his dishes!?) and put him to bed. He hummed another not-giggle. Absurd. He was certain some sort of precedent had been set, but the particulars escaped him. It was like that one jazz song. That one he liked with the dum-de-dum bit in the middle. He couldn’t remember the name but it wasn’t important. You didn’t need to know the words. Or the tune. Just had to follow along.

“Yes, I’ll stay. I’ll not abandon you. You have my word.”

“Until morning?”

“At least until morning.”

“Y’still owe me breakf’st,” he reminded. They had a deal. It was important to set expectations. His therapist said so.

“I shan’t forget. Go to sleep.”

It was a promise. And Mycroft kept his promises.

Sleep curled around him and he went under. Safe.


	9. Question and Answer

Morning was a lazy affair. Greg’s bladder woke him in the wee hours and as he came back to bed, he was suddenly struck by a sense of rightness. Crawling back in with Mycroft, slipping beneath the warm blanket and tucking himself back under the sleepy warm weight of Mycroft’s arm. He wound their legs together, facing him this time. He felt the skin of Mycroft’s belly brushing up against his, soft hairs tickling lightly. In the quiet, private darkness of his house, his room, his bed, his arms, Greg could be his. Just for a while. 

He drifted back asleep listening to Mycroft’s soft breaths, a gentle sway against his body. Breathing in the warm air between them, rhythmic and close. 

True morning came later. Greg’s alarm had been turned off - it was the birds outside that woke him this time, squawking about whatever birds talked about. Greg didn’t want to move. The air felt fragile, like a bubble, and he didn’t want to chance breaking it. Maybe he could stay here a little while longer - just like this, in their private little haven they’d made. Perhaps Mycroft wouldn’t mind if he didn’t get up right away.

Slowly, a light finger drew gently down his spine, and Greg let out a small laughing protest, nudging closer to Mycroft as, no doubt, the man had intended him to do. The air wafted up warm between them, rising from their bodies under the blankets. He poked a finger into Mycroft’s chest where his hands were tucked up between them.

“Stop that.” It was dangerously close to a whine, but Greg was warm, comfortable, and sleepy, and he didn’t care. “It’s unfair to attack a man while he’s naked and prone,” he rebuked.  “Rude, y’know.” 

Mycroft tipped himself backward, his arm drawing Greg over his chest as they resettled. Greg draped a thigh over Mycroft’s and centered his head more firmly on the man’s chest. Arranged this way, the sound of Mycroft’s breath was whooshing against his ear and he could hear the way his steady heartbeat pulsed in his chest. Underneath him, the rising and falling of Mycroft’s breathing rocked him gently back and forth. Greg felt as though he’d become a part of him this way - just a little bit. Like sex, but wholly different.

“That was rather beastly of me, I know,” Mycroft admitted without an ounce of shame and with more than a few ounces of smug. His voice was low and rough with sleep. His hand was warm as it swept up and down Greg’s ribcage, a flattened palm avoided the tickle this time. “I believe you mentioned something about breakfast last night.”

Mmm. Breakfast. Yes.

“You seem like a man who keeps his promises,” Greg teased through a small yawn. “What’s a bloke got to do for a bite to eat?” Except this, right here, was feeding an entirely different hunger in Greg. He could have breakfast any day. This? This was a rare treat. Lying naked with the man he… well. Greg tightened his arms and set the thought aside for later.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to persuade me too much. Although…” Mycroft trailed off, sliding a hand thoughtfully from Greg’s ribs downward to his hip. “I wonder if you’re terribly set on breakfast at this exact moment, or if I could perhaps interest you in a small  _ amuse-bouche _ first.”

Greg’s blood sizzled as he inhaled deeply through his nose. His cock, already thick from sleep, gave a twitch of interest against Mycroft's hip.

“Hmm…” Greg pretended to think, as he wound their legs closer together. If only he never had to let go. “Aren’t those chef’s choice? Don’t suppose you’re going to offer me a menu.”

“Quite correct. You’ll just have to take whatever I decide to give you.” Greg’s stomach swooped as Mycroft’s tone deepened to a growl and his smile turned predatory. “I won’t leave you wanting.” 

Greg was smoothly rolled onto his back and his breath quickened as Mycroft braced himself on his elbows above him. Caged in by those long arms, pressed down into the bed, Greg’s heart beat faster in his ears. He could see worlds of thought going on behind those eyes and he wanted to look away. Mycroft’s stare was always intense, exposing him where he felt most vulnerable. But rather than dampening his arousal, it fanned the flames and he felt his face heat. He squirmed a little. 

Mycroft bent and placed a small, slow kiss just to the side of Greg’s mouth, pulling away when Greg attempted to align their lips. Being denied only ramped him up further. Greg shuddered and fought to avoid closing his eyes, waiting to see what Mycroft would do next. The waiting was excruciating, even as he longed to give in. Greg slid his legs apart with a low sound, asking Mycroft to come closer, to kiss him some more. Please. He ached to wrap his legs around that slim waist, bury his face against Mycroft’s neck and breathe him in. His arms wound up around Myroft’s shoulders, tugging him down just a little closer.

Mycroft placed another kiss on the other side of his mouth - teasing. Close, but not where Greg wanted it. He angled his face and strained upward to capture one, but Mycroft dodged again, pecking his jaw instead. Greg’s blood roused. Infuriating. 

Greg was certain his thoughts showed plainly on his face.  _ Give it to me. Give me what I want. _ He made a small impatient sound and tried to pull him closer again, chest pressed to chest. Mycroft resisted, instead sliding his mouth down, just brushing Greg’s neck with his lips, breathing softly over his pulse. The tickle of warm lips sent his blood thudding heavy and raw under his skin. Surely Mycroft could feel it against his mouth. 

Greg moaned as a warm tongue traced under his ear - a direct line to his cock which had come to full attention. There was something incendiary about being savored like this. His hands ceased their pulling and instead simply held on as Mycroft braced over Greg, caging him in.The laser focus of the most powerful man he knew, directed wholly at him, made him feel large, like the only thing that existed. He felt powerful and expensive. Submitting to Mycroft was like a drug that rushed into his veins and under his skin. Settled in his brain and soothed his ego. It was dangerous. Greg arched his neck up to meet Mycroft’s mouth, craving a firmer touch. Please. His back bowed upward to put as much skin together as he could manage. 

He felt wild - he  _ wanted _ . Thirsted for more touch. 

The kisses shifted from light pecks to a wet, sucking slide, moving downward to Greg’s chest, nipping at the skin and pulling up small momentary red patches that faded quickly. Greg was dismayed. He wanted one to keep - one for real - to stay. He could cover it up. He wouldn’t tell anyone. When this was all over and Mycroft was done with him, he just wanted some proof that it happened. Mycroft could fade slowly from his skin, and he’d get to keep a part of him close for a few days while he grieved.

The warm lips that closed around his nipple made him cry out. His legs kicked once, restless with nothing to anchor them. The sharp pinch of teeth were the last straw - when Mycroft’s ungentle bite closed down, Greg’s hand darted down and wrapped around his cock, skating over it a few times. His breath came quicker - this was going to be the quickest orgasm of his life. 

Then Mycroft slid a hand down Greg’s arm and gripped his wrist, pulling his hand firmly up and away. Oh Christ - he was  _ so  _ close - his hips pumped fruitlessly against the air a few times before he was able to still them. His thighs trembled and his hands shook as he desperately tried not to fight against it. He clenched his hand in the air - not struggling, but tense with need.

“Mycroft,  _ please, _ ” Greg cried out in protest, breaths heaving as his whole body objected to being denied. “Mycroft,” he gasped again, nearly wailing. “Please.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, so calm it was entirely incongruous. “I love the way you beg me. The way you sound. The way you ask me.” His thumbs shifted soothingly on Greg’s wrist where it was held in the air. Mycroft brought it to his mouth, instead. Sucking a kiss to his wrist, then in the crook of his elbow as he wound their fingers together, before pressing the back of Greg’s hand flat to the bed, then reaching up and doing the same with his other hand. 

“I confess, selfishly, that I haven’t had nearly enough of you. You shall get your breakfast, Gregory. After I’ve had mine.” It was said with such an air of authority, of inevitability, Greg was powerless to argue. He went lax under Mycroft’s hands, waiting. 

Greg’s pulse raced as Mycroft took Greg’s lips in a slow kiss - a real one this time, drinking him in and biting gently at his lip. Then again, a longer, sucking kiss that had Greg panting into his mouth. 

“Please,” Greg said again, whispering against Mycroft’s lips before capturing them again while they were still close. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Mycroft’s open, unapologetic thirst for him was validating in a way nothing had been in years. Ages of being shrugged off when seeking touches, kisses, sex. Closeness. Kindness. He had it now, in his grasp, but he was still starving. Greg craved his lips, wanted him in his mouth. His addiction to cigarettes was being slowly transferred into an addiction for this man. An addiction to being  _ wanted _ . To being enough. It was a far more powerful draw.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed as they parted. 

Greg was proud that Mycroft seemed to have lost some of his earlier composure. How long had it been since Mycroft had been touched? Who got close to the posh man? Probably not many. 

“Gregory,” he breathed again gently between them, lips barely parted. Reverently. Like his name was a prayer. Or a secret. “I want -” He paused, waiting for Greg to open his eyes. Mycroft looked at him, as though searching for an answer there. “Ask me for something.”

The question pulled Greg back from the edge, his acute arousal easing as he recognized this wasn’t as simple as it seemed on the surface. He wasn't sure what to say. This seemed different than a partner asking how to help him get off. Mycroft certainly hadn’t had any trouble with  _ that _ , as his throbbing cock reminded him. No, this was a request wrapped up in a directive. A circular reference.

His immediate answer (getting his damn hand back so he could come  _ this instant _ ) was swallowed down. This was a special offer. It felt a little like a test, but one Mycroft wanted him to win. He thought carefully, ignoring the ache in his impatient cock, and thought back to the other morning, to what he had regretted most of all, but hadn’t been able to fix before he was wrenched away from their shared bed. Suddenly he knew in his bones - his greatest wish, he wanted Mycroft to be pleased. To be the one that made Mycroft come - to satisfy him. But he wanted more than that, and steeled himself for a gamble. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow as Greg’s face surely exposed his feelings. He hovered over his body - waiting for Greg to choose. To say it. To ask for what he wanted.

Greg was beginning to understand - there was power for Mycroft in words. Not just knowing a thing, but hearing it out loud. Explicit and direct. This would either pay off, or explode in his face.

Greg tightened his grip around Mycroft’s fingers where they were threaded together. Tipped his chin up, asking silently for a little favor first.  _ Kiss me, please. Just in case it’s the last one. In case you won’t want to anymore.  _

Mycroft’s face softened. He tipped his head down and pressed their mouths together, deep and slow, a long unhurried press. 

When they parted, Mycroft had an expression that Greg couldn’t immediately parse. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Mycroft was going to ask  _ him _ for something. 

“You said I could have what I wanted?” Greg asked quietly.

Mycroft quirked a small secret smile. “No, I said ‘Ask me for something.’ But if it is mine to grant, I shall.”

“And what if what I want isn’t a...bedroom thing?” Greg’s stomach flopped as he made his move.

“Gregory,” his tone had dipped into a slight good natured impatience. “If it is within my power and the request is made in good faith, I shall give you whatever you like.” This conversation hadn’t gone as anticipated and they were both naked and hard. This was not the time for extended negotiations. “Now. Why don’t you ask me nicely?” 

Greg bit his lip. Or perhaps it was the perfect time. Nicely. He could do that. 

“Mycroft,” he said with a teasing smile, “please make me the luckiest bloke in London by allowing me the indescribable pleasure of sucking your cock for as long as I wish...” 

Mycroft smiled indulgently. 

“...next week,” Greg added, with a cheeky grin. 

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open a touch - the look of surprise on his face was delicious. Greg’s heart wobbled dangerously as Mycroft released his hand to brush a lock of Greg’s hair back from his forehead, the touch gentle and warm. 

“As you wish,” he said simply. 

Never had Greg’s heart soared so high. Perhaps...maybe. If he was lucky. He tucked a secret thought away for later, trying desperately not to jinx himself. His body chose this time to remind him that he had still been halted at the precipice of a shivering orgasm and then kissed to within an inch of his life. He may want to suck Mycroft’s cock (next week, now, every day) but his own cock was still protesting being ignored. His erection had waned somewhat, but his desire hadn’t. He ached for more.

Mycroft captured his lips in another warm kiss, jaws stretching as their tongues slid together. 

“Ask me for something else.” 

Now it was Greg’s turn for surprise. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. That’s what he got for reaching too far. Asking for too much. His mouth twisted for a moment before he schooled it. 

“Something I can give you now,” Mycroft explained, stroking a hand down Greg’s chest to ease his growing alarm. 

Greg’s breath returned with a rush, relieved. He made a quavering noise in his throat before he could stop it. He didn’t have to think much about the answer, now that he was secure in knowing this wouldn’t be their last encounter. He desperately wanted to be selfish, but Mycroft had a way of prompting him to set aside his desires. He made it good for him, when he showed he could wait. He wanted that - what he couldn’t get elsewhere. The satisfaction of having been  _ good _ for him. 

“I want to make you come,” he whispered between them, before Mycroft could withdraw his offer. “I want to see it. Feel it on me. Want you to come first this time.”  _ Want to be yours. Marked and claimed. _ But he wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud. 

Mycroft’s eyes closed briefly, and Greg’s stomach began to sink again. Mycroft was disappointed. 

The agony lasted a whirlwind second until Mycroft opened his eyes. The scorching look Mycroft gave him made his blood rush. Mycroft breathed hard out his nose, grasped Greg’s hands again and guided them upward, tucking them underneath Greg’s head. Then a long, lean leg straddled his waist and Mycroft was crawling gracefully up Greg’s body to sit on his chest. 

Greg’s cock went from thickened to steel-hard in moments. He felt like prey. And he liked it. He squirmed underneath Mycroft. Not trying to get away, but stretching into his weight, relishing the sensation of being pinned. This close, he could smell Mycroft’s arousal - almost taste it on his tongue. He  _ wanted _ . 

Oh God. Mycroft’s thighs surrounded his face, warm bollocks resting on his chest. Greg wanted to run his hands over the long calves that braced against his sides. Bury his nose in the belly button and kiss his way down. After they were done, he was going to make a list of all the places he wanted to put his hands. Later. 

“You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen,” he confessed, lips nearly touching the tip of the heavy cock that was so, so close to him. He kept his hands out of the way, instead propping up his head and straining forward, trying to get his mouth around that mouth-watering length. 

In the back of his brain, he briefly wondered at the source of Mycroft’s consistent request to keep his hands off himself, immobilized in plain sight - controlled by choice. He tucked it away for later. Perhaps next week, he would ask about it. Ask to touch. Lay him down on the bed and let Greg run his hands all over. Make him feel nice. Greg could do that - relax him. Help him feel good. Be good for him.

“You wouldn’t say so, if you had the same view as I,” Mycroft countered. He was perched like an emperor on Greg’s chest. Looked right at home and utterly in control. God he was gone on this man. “Look at you. Doing so well for me. Wanting to please me. Your mouth looks very good like this, and it’s going to look even better on my cock.”

Greg’s heart pounded as Mycroft’s hands grasped the sides of his face, petting his cheek a bit before running a thumb underneath his lip, dodging Greg’s attempts to pull it inside his mouth. Greg fisted a hand in his own hair, tugging at it with impatience. If he didn’t get some part of Mycroft’s body in his mouth  _ right now _ he was going to die, he was sure.

He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, hoping to spur him to action, pleading. “ _ Mycroft _ .”

At last, Mycroft wrapped his long pale fingers around his cock. First, a couple of light skimming strokes (just to tease him, Greg was sure) and with a push of his hips, fed it gently into Greg’s mouth. Just the tip. Greg’s cock pulsed in sympathy. His mouth immediately watered at the taste, salty and warm, followed by a musty tang as Mycroft’s cock drooled at the contact. He wrapped his lips around it and sucked gently, running his tongue up and around and toying with the foreskin. 

Greg moaned at the weight on his tongue and clutched at his hair again, trying desperately to behave. He wanted to grab, to throw Mycroft back onto the bed and suck him down aggressively. But he couldn’t do that. Not right now. His scrabbling stilled as Mycroft pulled out and slowly entered his mouth again, just that first inch. The message was clear. He’d get what he wanted, but Mycroft would dole it out as he chose. The pace was glacial. Greg’s toes curled in agony; it was bliss. The warm, wet skin dragged over his tongue, heavy and slow.

“The sight of you is absolutely criminal. Your mouth feels exquisite.” Sparks fired in Greg’s brain and he did his best to keep his teeth covered, to relax his jaw - make it nice for him.

One more long lazy, thick slide in and out of Greg’s mouth, and Greg’s heart lurched to the left. One wasn’t supposed to fall in love like this. While sucking the world’s most gorgeous cock. Thank god his mouth was stuffed or he may very well have blurted out something stupid. 

Mycroft was still watching him, jaw dropping slightly as his breathing increased. Greg closed his eyes, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden. Like this, his skin felt peeled away. He had to get himself under control. What if Mycroft saw how he felt? His breathing hitched as he fought down his rising distress. It would ruin everything. Too much, too soon. He’d been told before - came on too strong and all at once. He wouldn’t do that this time - he could wait. 

When Mycroft gasped, Greg’s eyes flew open. Despite his fear, he needed to see - to know Mycroft was pleased. A fragile wave of pride washed over him as he noticed the slight sheen of perspiration dotted over Mycroft’s brow - saw how his cheeks began to flush pink as he eased back and forth inside Greg, never increasing his tempo. Utterly controlled as he took pleasure in what Greg had offered freely. Greg’s hips hitched once or twice - stifled immediately by the lovely bum pinning him to the bed. God, if only he could just wrap his hands around it. Feel the weight in his palm. Smooth his palms up the man’s back, pull him in closer, tighter, faster. 

He squirmed slightly until Mycroft made a slight _tsk_ noise behind his teeth, which quickly put an end to his fidgeting. Greg wanted to kiss him again - have his mouth on all of him at once. The way Mycroft cradled his face - it crumbled all of his resolve. So he put his effort into sucking the cock he’d been given. Winding his tongue around the head, licking softly at all the sensitive spots. Adjusting his suction until Mycroft groaned. 

After a while, Greg’s jaw began to ache with the stretch, his lips going puffy and oversensitive. His fingers were stiff from the press of his head, arms straining from their upraised position. He slithered his tongue over the frenulum, around the crown - teasing out an occasional rough breath from the beautiful man perched on his chest. His reward. 

One time, a soft, gasping moan escaped, and Greg felt like a king. Mycroft’s long thighs were warm around his chest, his weight pressing him into the bed, pinning him down as he rocked slowly back and forth. The skin between them grew sweaty and Greg redoubled his efforts. He wanted it - craved it. Needed Mycroft to come. To be pleased, and for him to be the one who made it happen.

Greg whined high in his throat, and this time, Mycroft didn’t stop his press forward. He invaded Greg’s mouth, his throat until Greg wasn’t sure he could swallow around it. His gag reflex was a bit of a hair trigger, but Mycroft stopped just shy. Greg relaxed his throat and did his best to breathe and stay calm. Mycroft’s cock pulsed heavy on his tongue as the length pressed at the edge of Greg’s comfort. Greg could taste him in the back of his throat. He sucked a deep breath in through his nose and tried to suppress his nervousness, unsure but trusting. He’d never been deep-throated before, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he trusted Mycroft to be careful with him.

Mycroft backed out, then pressed in again, a little faster this time. Another slight pause, no further in than before. Then out. The pace picked up and Greg moaned again. Finally, he would get what he wanted. He held his mouth steady and soft and warm, waiting for Mycroft to use him as he liked. He knew he’d be taken care of. He knew. 

Mycroft made a breathy sound as his cock drove in and out, a little faster each time, never too far. His hands were still on Greg’s face, feeling the movement of himself through Greg’s cheeks. Greg’s heart fractured a little as Mycroft lost himself in pleasure. When his hold grew firm, Greg knew his lover was getting close. His fingers tightened in his hair in anticipation. He wanted it. Mycroft’s balls were drawn up tight as he inched closer and closer to the edge, then, with a cry, released into Greg’s mouth. His hips kicked a bit as his cock pulsed its last few drops on Greg’s tongue. Greg swallowed around him, moaning and trying to capture it all. Not make a mess. 

“Beautiful,” Mycroft whispered, in no hurry to withdraw, as he traced Greg’s mouth around his softening length. “How well you did for me.” 

_ Please, won’t you keep me? I’ll be so good for you. _ Greg’s chest squeezed at the thought and he pinched his eyes shut so Mycroft wouldn’t see they’d grown moist. He sucked a quick tremoring breath through his nose but kept his mouth soft and still for Mycroft - hands behind his head. Waiting. 

Abruptly, Mycroft moved back, his eyes hazy with pleasure but still focused. He crawled off Greg’s chest. Greg was absurdly pleased to see his legs wobble a touch. He’d done that. When Mycroft placed his hands on Greg’s hips, guiding him to turn over onto his stomach, he obeyed the silent direction.

The sheets were a bit rough on Greg’s cock, oversensitive from being hard for so long. Unlike Mycroft’s bed, his just had the cheap sheets, and now he was paying for it. He squirmed, trying to adjust himself, get comfortable. He flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders, aching a little from staying so long in one position.

He heard his table drawer slide open and a soft click of a plastic cap from the bottle Greg kept there. 

“Remind me later to spoil you,” Mycroft murmured. “If you haven’t tried a proper high-end masturbation cream, you haven’t lived.”

Greg’s cheeks burned - equal parts embarrassment and arousal. Never in his life had he expected that someone else would have  _ opinions  _ about his lube, or dare to dream that Mycroft, of all people, was apparently both a connoisseur and a hedonist. Clearly his wasn’t up to snuff. Frankly he should have known by the truly excessive bath oils the man had. 

Greg was also nervous, though. He hadn’t anticipated they’d be needing any of that. Hadn’t talked about it at all. He wasn’t sure if he was up for  _ that _ .

Mycroft guided Greg’s hips up off the bed and he surrendered to be moved and positioned. Then a long hand slipped underneath him and soothed his cock with one long, sliding stroke, coating him in slick. Greg nearly squealed in surprise. He made to rise up, but Mycroft placed a hand on the center of his shoulders, and pushed his chest down onto the bed, re-positioning his hands on his head. As though he were about to be cuffed. And didn’t  _ that _ thought wreak havoc with his blood pressure? 

Greg clutched his hair again, allowing his body to be positioned as Mycroft guided, knees slid outward and up so he wasn’t quite kneeling but had a bit of leverage to move. 

He flexed his hips, and his cock slicked across a solid wet spot on the sheet - the lube Mycroft had applied mixed seamlessly with his own slick. He groaned heavily at the sensation. He was so keyed up, this wouldn’t take long. Story of his life, he huffed with a wry laugh. Every time he and Mycroft were together, Greg spent the entire encounter trying desperately not to embarrass himself. That long slow build that Mycroft liked got Greg wound up like a cheap watch and kept him there, balanced like a spinning top until Mycroft decided to nudge him just that little bit further.

The rasp of the sheets was ungentle on his cock - almost too much sensation at once, but he couldn’t help thrusting into it, rutting slowly against the bed. He groaned in both relief and slight discomfort at the position and the roughness of the fabric. 

“There we go. Good boy. Just like that,” Mycroft crooned. Greg tucked his face into a pillow, trying desperately to hide his delight. And his shame. Grown men shouldn’t want to hear words like that so desperately. He knew,  _he knew_ that Mycroft wanted to hear him, but just now, the idea of letting his voice echo in the room was unbearable. 

Mycroft’s hands slid gently over Greg’s balls, caressing them in his palms, lube cooling slightly in the air. A slippery thumb traveled up and made slow, firm circles on his perineum, driving Greg wild. His cries grew louder, guttural, and his hips pumped faster as he slid his cock against the sheets, adding his own pooling slick to the mess. 

The soft, circling thumb slid up until it was slipping against his entrance in slow revolutions. Not entering, just touching. Caressing. Then Greg felt Mycroft’s other hand land on him, parting his cheeks and exposing him to Mycroft’s view. 

“I want to take a photo of you, just like this,” Mycroft murmured nonchalantly, as if he were discussing a sunset or a tree in the park. 

Greg’s face flamed, heart tripping like a high-hat. It was that thought - the idea of Mycroft exposing him - watching him squirm - that set him off. His release was nearly painful; his cock a bit raw from the friction of the sheets, balls aching from the long delay. Greg spasmed hard and kept twitching long after he was spent, adding to the mess underneath him. His breathing was stuffy and hot as he huffed into the pillow, shielding his face. Greg sagged, going limp as he floated in the afterglow. 

Mycroft soothed a hand down his back, fingers trailing over his vertebrae, easing him down as Greg trembled a bit and sucked in air. 

The mattress dipped as Mycroft moved away and climbed off, and he let out a noise of protest, flinging a hand in his direction and seeking touch. He squirmed a bit, attempting to avoid the slick spot underneath him, but not making any appreciable progress to either side. He suddenly felt very alone. The cold air of the room crept over him. 

Mycroft clasped the nape of his neck briefly, petting his hair for a moment before letting go. “I'll be right back. Stay there.”

Greg’s arm flopped back down and his muscles began setting up a mild protest of their own. His lumbar wouldn’t thank him later - god he was getting old. The rumbling of his stomach reminded him that they’d not yet had breakfast, but he wasn’t ready to move yet, still marinating in the relaxation of his limbs. Greg started mentally going through an inventory of his pantry, trying to remember what he had in. Then he remembered that was Mycroft’s problem and settled back. Worrying came naturally to him - thinking ahead, planning for things. But Mycroft was here now. He could sit back a bit. If Mycroft needed something, he would ask. 

Mycroft’s footsteps were soft on the rug when he returned, and Greg submitted lazily to being nudged up and off the bed. He stumbled over to the shower, Mycroft guiding him gently with a hand on his shoulder, although they both knew the way. 

The water was already running, and the bathroom mirror was steamed over with the heat. Mycroft nudged him in, then followed behind. Together it was a tight fit but they managed. 

The shower that followed was largely outside Greg’s experience. It was sensual, soft, but not sexual. Greg was sure no one had ever washed his hair before Mycroft, and now here he was - doing it for the second time in as many days. The casual authority with which he was soaped, caressed and rinsed was doing his heart in. It was a wholly unnatural familiarity of body that they had no right to have achieved at this point in their...relationship? It was domestic in a way Greg hadn’t experienced since the early days of his marriage. 

He stayed passive under Mycroft’s hands, enjoying the slide and the gentle scrubbing as he was turned this way and back, ducking under the water when prompted. Mycroft wasn’t talkative - he simply applied Greg’s cheap bar soap and 2-in-1 hair wash without any shaming or fuss, then did the same for himself. 

Greg suddenly wished he had something better to offer. Up to Mycroft’s usual standards. If he’d planned this better, he’d have gotten him something posh to use for himself. He shouldn’t have to use Greg’s half-spent bar of Tesco soap. No doubt everything was being catalogued and measured, but no sign of criticism appeared on Mycroft’s face. Greg took the opportunity to “help” Mycroft rinse off. Really he was just answering the siren call of so much bare skin on display. It seemed that, during sex, touching - of himself, of Mycroft - was off-limits. But here, Mycroft simply graced him with a drowsy, indulgent smile, and stroked him back. Greg was still learning the rules.

They both stepped out of the shower, and Mycroft wrapped him gently in a towel, indicating that he should dry himself. Mycroft did the same and they each dressed - Mycroft in his suit pants from the day before, minus the jacket, and apparently without underpants either. Greg loaned him a simple white button-down. It was too big on Mycroft, and the sleeves were too short. Mycroft didn’t seem bothered, simply rolling the sleeves up his forearms with devastating precision. 

There was something incongruous about seeing him in shirtsleeves and bare feet. The slack in the shirt gave him a vulnerable look, but one that was purposeful in its exposure rather than accidental. His forearms were slender. Greg had seen them before, of course, but now the crisply rolled sleeve drew attention to them in a way that had Greg swooning a little. As always, Mycroft managed to look as though everyone else was out of place, and it was he who was best suited to his environment. Like an apex predator. His blazer was left on the hanger. Greg hoped that meant he’d stay a while longer. 

Greg’s morning routine was much simpler, wiggling into jeans and a weekend tee shirt. He wasn’t going anywhere today, and the only things on his to-do list were house chores. He stifled the urge to dress up a little on Mycroft’s behalf. 

After a quick assessment of his pantry, Mycroft dug out only a few standard ingredients. Greg cooked enough that he had the basics on hand most days. Eggs, bread, milk, and some frozen fruit he kept on hand for his smoothies. Greg propped his hip on the side of the door frame to the kitchen, watching Mycroft move with confidence in a kitchen that wasn’t his. Self assured, he reached for pans and utensils and dishes as though they were his own. There was something captivating about the way he moved, and he couldn’t stop staring at the small smile Mycroft wore as he cooked. 

Twenty minutes later, Greg was groaning over the best French toast of his life, topped with a homemade mixed berry sauce. Mycroft looked pleased at the noise, encouraging him to reach for seconds, but declining another plate himself. The conversation moved around comfortable, safe topics - food, then music, to Sherlock, to sports (Mycroft offered his condolences as Greg outed himself as a Gooner but declined to declare his own allegiance). 

It all should have felt a touch awkward - they hadn’t had such a long conversation before, and never one that hadn’t been work-focused - but it didn’t. They moved around one another as though they’d had more practice than two days in each others presence. Greg had the day off after yesterday’s fiasco, but he guessed that wasn’t the case for Mycroft when his phone rang as they were clearing the table. Mycroft moved to collect his sport coat and tie, uttering short, clipped responses to the person on the other line. It was clear that, while whatever was needed wasn’t a crisis, Mycroft wasn’t able to put it off until later. 

Greg felt a pang of loss, even though the man was still here. He helped him get ready anyway, handing Mycroft a clean pair of his own socks when Mycroft made a face at the ones he’d worn the day prior. He accepted with a thanks and Greg was desperately pleased to know that Mycroft would carry a bit of him on his way out the door. His shirt, his socks. He’d been useful. 

Neither of them had shaved yet - Greg wondered if that meant that Mycroft had intended to stay for the day, but dismissed that as a flight of fancy.  _ Just because he kept his promise doesn’t mean he wants to come play house with you _ , he scolded himself, scrubbing a hand up and down his arm. Even though they’d been naked together in the shower, he hadn’t felt uncomfortable until that moment.  _ He hasn’t got time to stay and take care of you all day. You’re a grown adult - act like it.  _

Greg knew he was just a diversion - knew he’d been an impulse indulgence from the start. He needed to keep it in check and not go barfing his feelings all over the place where they weren't wanted. He was such a disaster. Couple days of sex and one breakfast and he’d gone and clung to the first person who’d bothered to show an interest. Pathetic. He followed Mycroft to the door. Mycroft paused before opening it, then turned around. 

He looked at Greg again with that clear blue gaze. Greg tried his best to pack it away and keep anything embarrassing from showing on his face. No doubt it would be a failure, but perhaps he’d get some points for the attempt at restraint. Mycroft was so tidy and buttoned up (in  _ his _ shirt, his brain screeched at him) that Greg didn’t want to muss him up by clinging on, but he couldn’t help but trace a finger down his lapel, just once. Smoothed his tie, which needed no smoothing.

“Alright then?” He asked, attempting to inject some false cheer into his tone, and largely failing.

Mycroft searched his face, then took hold of his hand before Greg drew it away, using it to encourage Greg to come a step closer, until they were chest to chest. He bent down and nudged their noses together until Greg lifted his face, then placed a soft, slow kiss on his lips. 

“Gregory, I should like to see you again. I’ve left my card on your table with my direct number. Call me when you’ve time, and we’ll make arrangements.”

“I...Ok,” Greg stuttered, a bit shocked. And pleased. 

Mycroft caressed his chin as he turned away, and opened the door. It closed with a soft click behind him. 

Greg stood there for a moment, then wandered into his kitchen, seeing the aftermath of breakfast. Dishes lying as they’d been left. Looking very lonely now.  He saw the small business card lying there, next to his plate. 

He picked it up - the only bit of himself Mycroft’d left behind.  **_M. Holmes_ ** was printed on the front in a classy sans serif across the front in clean black letters. Greg flipped it over and saw a set of digits hand-written in lovely script. 

If he’d ever needed a solid indicator that he was absolutely out of his league, this was it. What kind of man had a business card that had no company, no job title, no number on it? Not even his full name, as if there could be no other “M. Holmes” of any relevance whatsoever.

And yet, Mycroft had asked him to call. Left his number. Wanted to see him again. What did that mean? He supposed that calling two minutes after the man had left, and pleading with him to come back was probably not what he’d meant. 

What were they? Friends with benefits? Seemed a bit casual for a man like Mycroft, but Greg supposed he must have had some arrangements over the years. To his knowledge, Mycroft had never been married, but that didn’t mean much when same-sex marriage had been off limits  for most of his life. He seemed like a man who didn’t enjoy complications. Was Greg a complication, or an efficiency? A whim?

He kept hold of the card as he wrapped himself under a blanket on the couch. The apartment held a forlorn sort of silence now, as if Mycroft had taken the spirit of the place with him when he’d left. The business card was as impersonal as it possibly could be. Except he suspected this was a phone number Mycroft didn’t distribute casually. He turned on the telly so the place didn’t feel so big, and flipped channels to watch reruns of Dr Who. He’d already seen these episodes, but right now...he had some thinking to do. He turned the sound down low and picked up his phone, holding Mycroft’s card in his hand, staring at it as he flipped through his saved contacts to a number he’d become very familiar with in recent years. He pressed the card to his chest, closed his eyes, and pressed the button to dial.

“Thank you for calling the West London Therapy Center. You’ve reached Dr Parker’s office. How may I help you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to everyone who's stuck around for an update to this story. Real life has been a whirlwind over the past few months - some good some bad. 
> 
> With lots of support and a new laptop, this chapter was finally at a place where I was happy with it, and I'm very glad I waited until I had a product I was proud of. I hope you like it.
> 
> Special thanks to bookjunkiecat for beta-ing several versions of this chapter while I whined about it a lot. <3 You're a star.


	10. Inner Urge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Luxie, Hooms, Savvy, and meansgirl for listening to me endlessly angst about this chapter. 
> 
> You are all mission assists. <3

Greg sat down in the gray loveseat and tugged a soft blue throw pillow closer, hugging it to his stomach as he made himself comfortable. The weight was settling, although he was aware that his body language was somewhat defensive. 

 

Dr Parker smiled at him and set a bottle of water on the table beside him before taking a seat across the coffee table in her own squashy armchair. 

 

“Welcome, back, Greg. It’s nice to see you.”

 

“Yeah, same. Thanks for fitting me in so quickly.” 

 

Camilla had been able to arrange a next-day appointment for him, an unclaimed 7 am slot, and he was grateful. He preferred morning appointments, even though it meant his workday got pushed back by an hour. Greg always felt it was better to go into therapy with a clear head than to attempt to manage wrangling his thoughts and feelings after a long day on cases. 

 

“Do you want to tell me a little bit about what’s happened? You told me a little bit on the phone, but it sounded like you had a few things on your mind. Wherever you want to start.” Camilla had a notepad next to her, but Greg appreciated that she largely ignored it during his sessions. Her hands were folded lightly in her lap, her quiet gaze focussed on him.

 

“Yeah, I just,” he squeezed the pillow a bit, “I had a rough case this past week. It just... it ...it got under my skin.” He rearranged his feet and sat up a bit straighter. “Guess it wasn’t that different from most cases, but. Just got me feeling a bit off balance, I s’pose.” 

 

“It’s perfectly natural that some cases might affect you more than others, even if the surface details appear similar. Are you able to identify anything in particular that unsettled you?”

 

“I think anything involving children is tough,” he said, worrying a corner of the fabric under his fingers. “And it felt like we didn’t do a good job. Like we didn’t protect her well enough - otherwise she never would have been taken.”

 

“Those are difficult feelings. Do you think that a colleague would agree with you?” 

 

Greg sighed and swallowed his first instinctive response. Instead he thought about it. 

 

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. “Probably, yeah. I think my team followed procedure. But I think we all take on blame that...that isn’t ours sometimes.”

 

“It is easy to think of things we might have done or could have done better, isn’t it?”

 

Greg smiled a little wryly. “Yeah, always. That’s what makes us good coppers, I s’pose.”

 

Camilla smiled kindly sat back in her chair allowing time for Greg to gather his thoughts. They’d had enough time together by now that they’d developed a rapport. Greg never needed much prompting to be open, but sometimes he wasn’t sure what to say at first. 

 

The pause went on a long time, stretching between them as the clock on the wall ticked quietly. 

 

“A girl died,” he said, finally, looking down at the fringe on the pillow in his lap. “She was young. Didn’t know better. Her mum kept calling me - keeps calling me - and I didn’t have any answers. Still picking up the pieces.” 

 

He outlined bits of the case in a disjointed narrative, ending with his little dip in the water.

 

“That sounds tough, Greg. But it sounds as though you did everything you should have.” 

 

He nodded. “S’hard. Being the one responsible, sometimes. I know it’s my job. I’m good at it. But sometimes, I’m just...tired. I know I followed procedure. Trusted my team. Got there in the end. But I feel a bit worn down about the whole thing.” 

 

“You’re in a high-pressure job, Greg. We both know the toll that the police force can take - on individuals and their families. Being responsible day after day - it’s natural you’ll experience a bit of fatigue after a while.” 

 

Greg was, once again, thankful that Dr. Parker was ex-force. She understood him in ways that a civilian therapist might not. 

 

“What does your care routine look like, right now? Are you still running in the mornings?” 

 

“It’s a bit spotty,” he admitted, fiddling with the pillow tassel again. He’d devolved into eating takeaway and downing so much caffeine he had trouble winding down at night. “Haven’t been running, like I said. And having trouble gettin’ to sleep and stayin’ asleep…except for...” he trailed off, thinking about the night before, when Mycroft had tucked him in. He’d slept comfortably until late in the morning.

 

“Except for?” Camilla prompted gently.

 

“I’ve been...guess you could say I’ve been seeing someone,” he said, uncertainly. “I dunno what to call it, but he’s a bloke I know from work, kind of. And he came over last night after I got home from the case. Brought me dinner and put me to bed.” Greg ducked his head and hid a smile at how absurd it sounded, as though he had been tucked in like a child. 

 

“That was kind of him,” she said.

 

“Yeah it was…” Greg rubbed his chin, stubble rasping against his fingertips. “I’m not sure other people would call him kind,” he said. “But he is...with me, he is.” A gentle smile slid onto his face as he gazed out the window in thought.

 

“And how does he make you feel when you’re together?” she asked.

 

“Dunno if you’d say we were _‘together’_ ,” he waffled, “but...he’s very good at settling my nerves,” he admitted. “When we’re together I feel as though he’s got everything taken care of. Like I don’t need to worry because he’s already thought of everything. And he’s...gentle.” Greg blushed a touch, in memory. “I think that’s something that most blokes don’t do. Or admit that they like. ‘Boys gotta be tough’,” he parroted gruffly. “But I liked it. Being looked after. That’s new, for me.”

 

“I think wishing for gentleness is very human, Greg,” she reassured, warmly. “You and I both know it’s not an indicator of weakness. And I’m glad you’ve had a chance to experience it. It sounds as though you felt very supported.” 

 

“I did, yeah. What’s the word...safe. I felt safe.” He plucked at a tassel. “Sounds a bit stupid, saying it out loud.”

 

Camilla tsked gently. “What did we say before?” she reminded. 

 

Greg nodded at her in silent agreement. “Feelings can’t be stupid,” he paraphrased dutifully. “I’m allowed to feel whatever I experience, and my experience is valid.”

 

“So let’s try again, okay?”

 

“I felt safe,” Greg said, more confidently this time. 

 

“Well done,” she praised. “You said your relationship was new,” she said, starting on a different track. “Do you have an idea of where you’d like it to go? Or is it still early days?”

 

“I’ve been avoiding thinking about it,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to jinx it.”

 

“Okay. Would you like to start there?” she asked, letting Greg set the pace. 

 

Greg nodded, ready to start their routine they’d developed. It took several months, but together they’d cobbled together some techniques that helped Greg process and move forward - they’d learned that he did best when he had a plan, even if it didn’t get followed later. Greg liked to feel productive.

 

“Let’s get out our notebook, then, and we’ll do Best, Worst, and Likely,” Camilla said. “Maybe we can sort out some feelings and come up with some actionable steps.” 

 

“Always making me work,” Greg teased, accepting a pad of paper from her and separating the page into three sections, one for each header. 

 

“Ok, '' she said. Let’s start with Best. What’s our best possible outcome?”

 

Greg put on a goofy smile. “We fall madly in love in a whirlwind romance and get married and live happily ever after.” Greg set the pillow aside and balanced the notepad on his knee, scribbling his words into the Best section with a smile. It was a nice thought - to imagine he could have it all. Rings. Flowers. Mycroft looking devastating in a tux. Baths together. Like a rom-com movie. Go on holiday in France. Get a silly dog. Watch the telly at at night. Gentleness.

 

“Alright,” Camilla smiled. “Reaching for the sky. I like it. Now how about Worst?”

 

Greg’s stomach sank and the smile fell off his face almost immediately. Even the thought was agony.

 

“Worst? Um. He says he never wants to talk to me again. And he says doesn’t have feelings for me,” he said aloud. In his mind, though, the thought started to unspool. A cold claustrophobia closed in on his chest, like he’d taken another dip in the river. All the worst case scenarios unfolded in his head. He spent time with me and decided I was no good after all. He took me home as a joke, and now he’s going to tell Sherlock. Everyone at work will know I had a male lover and I’m going to lose my job. I’ll be disappeared by his security. I’ll be alone. No one will let me be little spoon again. 

 

“Greg. _Greg_ ,” Camilla had clearly called his name a few times.

 

“I don’t like Worst,” he said, placing the end of the ballpoint between his teeth, doing his best to resist gnawing on the cap. “It’s...a lot. A lot of Worst.” 

 

“I know - for now, try to resist “awfulizing” like we talked about. Try to stick with the big picture, not the details, for now.” Camilla’s voice was soothing, and Greg remembered their sessions together before, when his anxiety had been crippling. 

 

Greg nodded and jotted a few general items down, unable to resist doodling a little sad face in the corner. 

 

“Now the Likely things?” he asked, trying to shrug away from the sick feelings. Tangible outcomes made him feel better. Solutions. He liked order - having a plan. That’s why they’d settled on this method. Writing everything out helped him to clarify his own thoughts. 

 

“Yes, what are some of the most likely outcomes? Remember, this should be somewhere in between the two endpoints you’ve created, and be as broad and simple as possible.” 

 

Greg thought, slipping the end cap between his back teeth and exerting pressure. The chewing was calming. 

 

“Take your time,” Camilla prompted, seeing that Greg was thinking, and not simply stalling. 

 

 _Likely_ , Greg thought to himself. He started a new list in his spiky script. Lists were orderly - he liked them. 

 

_1\. Mycroft wants to see me again._

_2\. Mycroft doesn’t want to see me again. ( not my fault)_

_3\. Mycroft doesn’t want to see me again. (I’m deported to Antarctica)_

 

After a moment of thought, Greg nibbled the pen, scratched out #3, then scribbled another one down. 

 

_4\. Mycroft wants to see me again, but only for sex._

 

And there was the crux of the issue. 

 

“Do you want to read them aloud, or keep them private?” Camilla asked. “Either one is okay.” 

 

Greg shared with her what he’d written down. “I want to...I want to know if I can see him again,” Greg admitted. “Maybe get to know each other - have a relationship. That’s what I want.” 

 

“That seems like a very clear objective. Do you want to break it down now? Let’s explore what that might look like, and then we can come up with some steps together. Sound good? For now, you can bullet point, or free write in a long form. Let’s just get some ideas down. What does ‘see Mycroft again’ look like when you picture it?” 

 

“Yeah, okay.” Greg thought some more. Then turned the page and started a new list, his hand cramping from holding the pen too tight. 

 

**_Objective: See Mycroft again._ **

 

**_Goals:_ **

 

_1\. Go on a date together_

 

_2\. Call him sometimes (or text)_

3\. Relax on the couch and watch telly?

4\. Get to know him better

5\. Blow job ( he promised!)

 

 

 

The list felt very simplistic. Seeing it written out felt good, made it seem achievable. These were all things he could do, probably. He read the results out loud to Camilla (face flaming as he admitted the last item), but he could feel his anxiety was receding. He had a plan. 

 

“Well done, Greg,” Camilla praised. A little warm thrill tucked under his ribcage. He smiled a bit shyly, childishly proud of himself. The pen cap was becoming a little worse for wear. 

 

“Now what?” he asked. He already knew the next bit, but he felt better when Camilla directed the exercise. 

 

“Now we write down our action steps. They should all support your main objective, and they should help to accomplish at least one of your goals. You don’t have to tackle them all at once - we’re just picking one for right now. When you’re ready, you can add to the list as needed. You’ve always been good about following through,” she noted.

 

“What if they’re all kind of the same?” He asked. 

 

“Let’s rank them, then. Put them in order, either chronologically, or in order of importance. Do any of them logically come first? Or is one really standing out? Don’t be afraid to revise your Objective and your goals. It’s okay to be flexible for now as you explore what you want.”

 

Greg scribbled a bit and revised the list: 

 

 _ **Objective:** ~~S~~_ ~~ _ee Mycroft again_ ~~ _. **Start a relationship with Mycroft**_

 

**_Goals:_ **

 

_1\. Go on a date together_

_~~2.~~ 3\. Call him sometimes (or text) _

~~3\. R elax on the couch?~~ 4\. Spend casual time together

 ~~4.~~ 2\. Get to know him better

5\. Blowjob?

 

That looked better to him. It felt like a plan. 

 

“All done?”

 

Greg nodded.

 

“Okay, you know what to do next. Let’s take the first item and create our action steps. Remember, we’re aiming to achieve the ‘Best’ outcome. What steps can we take to get the first item complete?”

 

“I like this part,” Greg admitted. “You know, I use this technique at work, too, sometimes. When we’ve got big projects. The team hates when I tell them to ‘break it down’ too many times.” 

 

He flipped to a new page, and re-wrote his list tidier at the top, revising a bit more. That was the drawback of writing in ink, but he had lots of blank pages. He left some room after his first goal, and filled it in with action steps.

 

_Objective: Start a relationship with Mycroft_

_Goals:_

 

_1\. Go on a date together_

 

  * _Call Mycroft_


  * Ask him on a date


  * Plan a date



2\. Get to know him better

3\. Communicate with him regularly (call or text)

4\. Spend casual time together

5\. Blowjob

 

Greg read his new list again - hearing it out loud helped him to internalize it. Like a mantra. 

 

Alright, Camilla said. “We’ve got the who and the what. Now let’s plan the rest. Let’s decide a when and a where.”

 

“Call Mycroft,” Greg recited aloud. “I’m nervous to do that,” he admitted. There’s a lot that could go wrong with this, right off the top.” 

 

“You can’t control Mycroft’s decision,” she reminded gently. “You can only do your best to set yourself up for success. When you call Mycroft, what do you think might help you?”

 

“I could...be in a comfortable place,” he started. “My flat.” 

 

“That’s a good idea. Anything else?”

 

“I could write down anything I don’t want to forget to say.”

 

“Good.” 

 

“And...and I think I’ll call after work today. It’s been a little while since he gave me his number. I don’t want him to think I’m not interested, or that I wasn’t serious about seeing him again.”

 

“Sounds like you’ve got a good plan together, Greg.”

 

Greg smiled. He felt good. Settled. Ready. 

 

He wrote down his ideas and tore the sheets out of the notebook, folding them twice and tucking them in his pocket for later. He’d write everything out in his own notebook at home. He liked to see things he’d worked on in the past when he was feeling down. Seeing his past progress was always reassuring. 

 

Together, they wound down their session, talking over the case (which mostly consisted of Greg reaffirming that he’d done what was possible) and walking through refreshers of his grounding techniques to use when he felt upset. 

 

Greg left feeling calm. It was nice to have a sounding board, a trusted person to talk about things with. Over the time they’d had together, Greg realized that more often than not, he already had the answers he needed. He just liked having help putting the pieces together. 

 

~*~

 

When Gregg arrived at work, shouts were ringing off the tall glass panes in the lobby. His cheerful whistling died off immediately. Sherlock was gesticulating wildly, and Inspector Youghal was red in the face, looking like he was about to wring the detective’s neck given two more seconds. Greg didn’t want to know. But he couldn’t just leave things like this, either. Any trouble with Sherlock was bound to fall on his shoulders eventually. 

 

As quickly moved towards the elevator, snagging the trailing end of Sherlock’s iconic blue scarf and yanking it slightly as he went by. Sherlock broke off mid-rant as though nothing at all had happened and did a graceful about-face to follow a step behind Greg, leaving a furious and bewildered Inspector Youghal arguing with himself. Greg suspected whatever it was, was simply time-wasting troublemaking and not of any real importance or Sherlock would have been ejected from the premises. The smirks on the faces of the others in the lobby seemed to back up his theory that Sherlock was just winding Youghal up for fun. He was a prick like that. 

 

As the elevator doors shut on the lobby (and the noise) and ascended to the Major Crimes floor, Sherlock looked Greg up and down, no doubt deducing his breakfast or whatever kept a man like him amused in between cases.

 

“Lestrade. You’re late.”

 

“I’m never late. I arrive precisely when I mean to.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes then scoffed. 

 

“Off talking about your feelings then?”

 

“Why’re you here? I haven’t got anything for you.” Greg wasn’t ashamed of seeing someone, but he also wasn’t going to lay his laundry out to dry in front of the detective. If Sherlock wanted something from Greg, he’d have to work for it.

 

“Of course you don’t. You never do, until you’re over your head and simply fail to notice you’re drowning.” 

 

“If you’re only here to cause problems, you can see yourself out.” Greg didn’t have time for this, and his good mood was rapidly cooling.

 

“I’m here to give you a gift, of course.”

 

“A gift?” Greg was suspicious. Sherlock wasn’t the gifting type. Anything Greg got from him was prized out of his gleeful little palms at the end of every case. Only the incentive of getting to display his cleverness to an entire captive courtroom audience would convince him to cooperate long enough to gather actionable evidence. 

 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and tossed a spare ID keycard onto Greg’s desk. The one he’d lost last week, only it turns out he hadn’t lost it after all. Twat.

 

“You giant arse! How many times have I got to tell you to stop impersonating me? Do it again, and I’ll have you arrested, you little shit.” Greg should have left him in the lobby. 

 

“As it turns out, that’s not the gift. I just don’t need it anymore.” Sherlock was utterly nonplussed by Greg’s threat as he pulled a folder out from his posh coat and plopped it on top of his mail bin with a lazy flourish.

 

A photo slid out - a photo of a man, taken from a distance. A dirty post-it with an address scribbled first in pencil, then in pen overtop was stuck to the front. Greg recognized the picture at once. It was a person of interest in the Clarke case. A bloke they’d questioned before, but didn’t have enough to pin on him. Just a funny feeling.

 

“My network says there’s been activity down by the harbor. This man was seen disposing of a young girl’s nightwear in the water. They weren’t able to retrieve it, but they sent me this photo, and estimated the clothing might fit a girl of eight or nine. They tracked him back to this address. If you’re looking for Sophie’s Clarke’s killer, you might try over there.”

 

“Why give me this? Why not track him down yourself?”

 

“My initial look through his social media account suggests he’ll sing like a canary - you don’t need me. Any reasonably competent officer, such as yourself, could solve this one. It’s barely a two but it seemed…” Sherlock paused for a moment, his face carefully neutral as he chose his next words. “It seemed a waste of evidence not to pass it on,” he finished. “Call it an anonymous tip, if you like.”

 

Greg tried not to stare. He knew Sherlock had feelings in there. Even if the man was a monumental arse to cover it up.

 

“Thank you,” he said simply. If Sherlock wanted this to be passed over without a fuss, then Greg would oblige him.

 

He pulled out his wallet and opened it to tuck the returned keycard back inside, making a mental note to turn it in to security. He’d already gotten a new one, but this one would have to be reported. 

Abruptly, Sherlock snatched the wallet out of his hands, deftly plucking Mycroft’s card out from the middle and dropping the wallet on the desk like a piece of rubbish. He held the card with two delicate fingers, as though it were coated in poison, although Greg supposed if it _were_ poison, Sherlock wouldn’t have that great big sneer on his face. 

 

“Is _this_ what he’s been up to? The sheer bloody cheek! My odious brother? Of all the men - men? Yes I suppose he’s not the first, is he? I can’t believe he’s corrupted you - now you’ll be utterly insufferable.” Sherlock’s face was abruptly apoplectic. 

 

“Oy! That’s no business of yours! Hand that over, right now!” Greg’s heart was pounding. It was no business of Sherlock’s, but he had a bad feeling the detective was going to make his life difficult now. He wasn’t out to his team or his superiors, and he didn’t need Sherlock spraying it all over his career before he’d made the right moves first. 

 

“On the contrary, it’s every bit of my business. Mycroft is a snake. He’ll use you up and toss aside the leftovers and I’ll be left dealing with you all distracted and despondent. How _dare_ he spoil you?” Sherlock spat, his hysteria growing. “He doesn’t want you - he doesn’t want _anyone_ . He’s courting you because it’s _convenient_ . Because he likes having someone to manipulate. Someone agreeable. _Pliable._ Don’t you see?” Sherlock’s pitch was rising as he grew more and more agitated. “You’re not special. It’s all a game to him.”

 

“You don’t know anything, Sherlock. Give that back and see yourself out.” Greg was trying to stay calm, but he was angry. The card was his. It was a gift. It was _important_. And he wanted it back. Sherlock had no right to interfere.

 

“No! I won’t allow it. He uses people, Greg! He uses them, and when he’s done he tosses them aside. You’re no different. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is about _sentiment._ Mycroft doesn’t ascribe to anything so pedestrian as _feelings_ . He’s a cold blooded Gila monster in a bespoke suit.” Sherlock was fully shouting now. “For _once_ in my life, I have something that is mine, and he _always_ has to spoil it - stick his fingers in. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Go solve your case and forget about Mycroft.” Sherlock hissed the name. Then, in an act of defiance, he ripped the card up, put the pieces in his mouth and _swallowed_ them. 

 

Greg was speechless. Devastated. Enraged. Mycroft’s phone number. Gone in a petty fit of jealousy.

 

By sheer force of will Greg managed not to commit a hot-blooded murder in his own office in full view of the entire major crimes unit. 

 

Sherlock’s face - at first defiant and triumphant - slowly took on a look of caution as Greg’s silent battle with himself raged internally. On one hand, Sherlock had helped with his case, gone out of his way to pass on information. On the other hand, Greg wanted to put his hands around that smug detective’s throat and _squeeze_. Greg had a temper. Everyone knew it. He got shouty sometimes - yelled and kicked. He knew he should count to ten. Take breaths. Walk away. His body was shaking, fists clenched, teeth creaking. 

 

He swiped a hand over his face. Whispered, hoarsely, so he wouldn’t shout. It came out as a croak. 

 

“Get out.”

 

Sherlock looked for a moment as though he had something to say, then as Greg’s face tightened, reddened even further, he took advantage of a momentary lightning strike of emotional awareness and backed out of Greg’s office, breezing through to the stairwell rather than wait for the elevator. 

 

Greg slowly, quietly closed the door. In his mind, he pictured slamming it. Repeatedly. Hard enough to shatter the glass. It wasn’t satisfying. He felt like a powder keg. Like a fractured vase. Fragile, and bigger than his skin. 

 

He sat down at his desk, looked at the file Sherlock had given him. Looked at his wallet. The loss of Mycroft’s card hadn’t made a difference to its shape at all - as though it had never been there. But to Greg, it was clear as day. His chest felt tight, squeezed and pinched out of shape. 

 

His face slowly came to rest in his hands. They were shaking so badly, he braced his elbows on the desktop, trying to stay calm. He breathed deep into his palms, counting slowly backwards from one hundred, keeping time with the ticking clock on the wall. 

 

As the seconds ticked down, the rage didn’t recede so much as transform. From a hot fire, to a slow poison. As his murderous anger faded, another emotion, more terrifying, took its place. 

 

The first tears stung his eyes as they welled up, and Greg dug his fingers into his face, trying to stop. But they wouldn’t be stopped. The first choking hiccough was abrupt as his chest seized. The next sobbing breath came easier as Sherlock’s words rang in his ears. 

 

_Convenient. Uses people. Tosses them aside. Not special._

 

He needed to stop this. He had a job to do. People were counting on him. This was not the time to have an emotional breakdown about his personal life. 

 

He started his count over again. 100...99...98…

 

Breathe in - that’s it.

 

Hold. 

 

Breathe out - slower this time. 

 

Greg’s hands continued to tremble as the minutes passed, the adrenaline would still be rocketing around in his body for a while, but his breathing evened out. The hitching breaths smoothed. His chest loosened, but the ache in his sternum remained, as though he’d been punched. 

 

Second by second, Greg packed it all away for later. His wallet was tucked back into his pocket. 

 

Greg sat up slowly. Wiped his face. Took a drink of water. 

 

He reached for the file.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01.19.2020  
> This may also be a good time to mention that I've offered up a fanwork for auction in the 2020 FTH event. 
> 
> If you're interested, it'll be a 5-10K fic, either Mystrade or Stucky. You can find out more info at fandomtrumpshate at Tumblr dot com. The highest bid goes to a charity of the bidder's choice. 
> 
> Be thinking about what you want me to write!

**Author's Note:**

> If you love mystrade too, come shout at me on Tumblr and Twitter @paialovespie


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